


Where the lonely ones roam

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Episode: s03e02 Primavera, Heat Sex, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, No mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Porn with Feelings, Roleplay Logs, Rough Sex, Switching, Top Hannibal, Top Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: It is as violent as it is intimate, as chaotic as it is soothing. Hannibal isn't surprised. Given who they are and what they've done, anything less would feel disingenuous.[ABO Hannigram porn with feels. After Will declines to run away with Hannibal, he instead offers him the chance to bond...]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, normally ReallyMissCoffee is very picky with ABO stuff bc she hates that sometimes the characters lose their personalities and the whole non-switching aspect/rigidity in roles. I've never written ABO, and ofc we decide to try doing a one-shot ABO where it ends up omega!Hannibal tops alpha!Will and we anger the purists lol~ 
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER IS HANNIBAL IN HEAT AND GETTIN' FUCKED THO. >:D
> 
> I had her write me a whole primer of our own ABO dynamics. No mpreg is possible bc we're thinking same-sex relationships are a means of population control and just so you know here is what we're going with in terms of nontraditional pairing regarding sex:
> 
> So: (top/bottom)  
> Alpha/Alpha = unnatural, but acceptable.  
> Beta/Alpha = uncomfortable, but acceptable.  
> Omega/Alpha = degrading.  
> Omega/Omega = niche porn; “Alpha fantasy” (think lesbian porn for hetero men).  
> Omega/Beta = condescending and worthy of mockery, but still acceptable.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format. At times we can be pretentious, repetitive and annoyingly wordy, but we're not going to change so please forgo any "constructive criticism" regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories.

_'To the truth, then. And all its consequences.'_

In the low light, they're finishing up another meal. A sacrificial lamb (or so Hannibal had claimed, but Will knows better by now). Succulent meat, an opulent table setting - the usual. Will finds it strange that he's actually grown accustomed to it all - the pomp _and_ company. He's been eating better, at least - one perk of _friendship_. Hannibal looks proper and composed (but still somewhat distant). They've been closer, Hannibal getting up into his personal space, like how he'd reached out to Will in the stables... Hannibal may be an Omega but Will knows the Doctor enjoys subverting expectations whenever possible.

It had honestly been a surprise when Hannibal had offered that the two of them run away _tonight._ Almost polite, Hannibal had said. Will could see himself doing it, is the thing. He could see himself feeding his dogs and leaving that note, but Will had known he couldn't go through with it in the end. So he'd declined, citing that he needed Jack to _know_ the truth. There would be no forgiveness between the Hannibal, Jack and himself. It's too late for that.

Will looks at Hannibal as he takes a sip of wine. He feels a sudden threat of panic. Has the Omega figured it out? Figured _him_ out? Discovered his duplicity somehow? Will doesn't know. He'd thought he'd been careful. He _tried,_ anyway, but playing with Hannibal is fucking dangerous. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, after all. Hannibal Lecter - his therapist and friend - had let his illness go untreated and framed him. Killed Abigail. Killed Bev. Sent a killer after him. Played with the Vergers... The list of offenses is long, and yet Will is still tempted by the dark appeal of Hannibal and what he offers...

"Let me bite you, Hannibal," Will says, his voice low as he sets down his glass.

They both know what it means. A bite means the form of a _bond._ But maybe it would prove to Hannibal...

* * *

There are many words in many languages, but as Hannibal sits at his dinner table with flickering candlelight dancing over the half-eaten meal before him, Hannibal finds that none of them come close to detailing the sheer level of his bitter disappointment. He is not one for flights of fancy. He is not one to turn a blind eye to any situation, to willingly view the truth and choose to turn away from it. It has always been the instinct of _lesser_ creatures, of Omegas ruled by their biology and sentiment, of written characters romanticized to promote complacency in underdeveloped circles. Given how effortlessly Hannibal has been able to pass as an Alpha for so many decades, he is no slave to his biology. He never has been.

Yet in those few short seconds, when he extends the offer to Will, he hopes with a fervency unmatched that Will might simply _accept_. Hannibal would always know. He would always resent that the meat that Will had brought to his table had not been Freddie Lounds, but Randall Tier. He would always know of Will's deception and wonder, but compared to a life of solitude after having genuine connection, the sacrifice seems almost noble.

But it is not to be.

Will insists that he needs Jack to know the truth and Hannibal feels the bitterness sink into him so deeply that it feels worked into his very DNA. He's quiet, emotion welling within, but he blinks it back, seeking the solace of his wine. To the truth, indeed. If Will Graham must have his pound of flesh, so be it. Hannibal will take his due.

Hannibal reaches over and sets the wine glass down on the table. He thinks nothing, beginning to withdraw in on himself. He expects the meal to continue and he is already planning what to do, what to say, how tomorrow might go now, when Will speaks. He interrupts thoughts of Abigail, holed away upstairs, safe and sequestered and kept for Will Graham (for them both...).

Yet Will's words immediately make Hannibal look up. There is no gradual glance; the shock has his head almost jerk up, and when he meets Will's level gaze, Hannibal almost thinks he's misheard. Then he sees the look that Will is giving him, feels the pulse of his presence in the room.

Normally Hannibal would roll his eyes or shove away the press against his own instincts; he's always been above them. Yet as he looks at this achingly deceptive man and thinks on it, on what that might _mean_ , Hannibal foolishly allows himself a sudden flare of hope. He is not wrong, but perhaps there is more to Will's deception. Perhaps there is more to his plan...

Doubt tastes thick and bitter on his tongue, and yet he sits straighter anyway. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away. Instead, he searches Will's eyes in silence. Then Hannibal quietly reaches up and undoes the tie at his throat, working it loose with one finger. The buttons of his collar part under his fingers, and Hannibal bares unmarked skin to Will. He feels the tension like a pulse.

"Has all of this been your courtship, then?" He asks rhetorically, careful to keep the sting from his voice. "I thought you had no interest in taking a mate."

* * *

Alphas are known to be impulsive and reckless, but this is a supremely bad idea. Will's aware of the seriousness of bonding. It's not something one just throws out as a suggestion - it's not light dinner conversation. It's a show of a serious commitment. Of course, it's a bigger risk for the Omega. Always has been. (As per usual, Omegas get the shit end of a deal.) Once the Omega's body recognizes the sudden addition of Alpha DNA, the Omega's desire to mate with another Alpha is nearly nonexistent. It's a promise of loyalty depicted by a scar.

Well, they already have scars, don't they? By proxy, anyway. Jack had shot him to _save_ Hannibal and Matthew had cut Hannibal's wrists _for_ him.

Hannibal is not a normal Omega, nor is Will that typical of an Alpha. Hannibal is not submissive by nature nor does he abhor violence (quite the contrary). Will - while he will stand up for himself - would rather not get into pissing competitions with other Alphas. He's let Jack push him around for a while now (but still he's contradicted Jack enough times to make it known that being right is actually important to Will).

On suppressants and wearing cologne, Hannibal easily passes an Alpha. Will hadn't known the truth until incarcerated and Hannibal had corrected his assumption. Of course, that hadn't stopped Hannibal from messing with him when he'd had the Encephalitis, choosing to forgo his cologne later on.

Will's eyes watch Hannibal straighten. Their eyes connect in the silence and then the silence is broken by the soft rustling of fabric. Deft fingers loosen a patterned tie and Will can't help but lick his lips and swallow at the sheer knowledge that Hannibal is going to let him. It's a sick anticipation he's never felt before. He's never wanted--

Three buttons are undone and unmarred flesh is exposed to him. The moment is heavy, as if Will's finger is on the trigger again. (Guns lack intimacy, but this sure won't.)

"Couldn't I say the same for you?" Will asks in return. They both have made it known that they don't particularly care about their base instincts and mating.

Will slides his chair back and stands. Apparently, they're doing this. They're doing this in the fucking dining room. Will motions for Hannibal to stand.

"I'm interested in _you_."

It's not a lie.

* * *

Hannibal is aware of the risk. He's _taught_ other Omegas of the risk before, both as a physician and as a psychiatrist. He knows what lies in store for him if this is just another deception. There's a fair chance that it is, that Will has no interest in anything but seeing him caught, and as Hannibal looks at him expectantly, he wonders what the plan had been. Entrapment? Betrayal? A bullet between the eyes? Perhaps he will find out tomorrow. (But he hopes, _achingly,_ that he is wrong. That this is genuine.)

He can feel the anticipation stretch between them, viscous like honey on the back of his tongue. It's a cloying sweetness that feels too thick to swallow. Will watches him with a clarity that Hannibal drinks down, and he wishes - just for a moment - that this could be real. He splays his collar wide and bares his throat, and he doesn't move until he's directed to. Manners insist that because Will is the one who has asked, he should be the one to direct this moment.

Hannibal's hum is silent, the small pull of a smile on his lips mirthless as Will returns his challenge. Hannibal says nothing at first. He sets his hands on the table and purposefully rises onto his feet, his movements controlled and graceful despite the chaotic uncertainty of this bold play. Then, as he takes a single step closer to Will, almost able to feel the press of anticipation against his chest, attempting to force him backwards. It fits; aren't the best decisions the ones that are most difficult to make?

"It appears that there are exceptions to every rule, even those self-imposed. Considering the circumstances... considering what we have been through and done to one another, such an instinctual bond seems almost overdue."

No matter how badly he wishes it were not true, Hannibal's instincts agree with him. He feels the ache of want, of hope, of desire, and while he knows better, it does not stop him as he takes yet another step closer, then stops mere inches from Will. Hannibal meets his eyes quietly, then he slowly cants his head, baring just enough of his throat to make it clear that he's offering.

"Tomorrow will see the cultivation of your becoming, Will. Whatever happens, I can think of no better way to herald it."

* * *

Hannibal calls it a courtship and Will's inclined to agree. There had been all the artful dinners. The appointments that had begun to less resemble actual therapy and instead morph into something _else._ The _glances_ that had lingered for far longer than what would have been normal for mere friends. The fact that neither of them had been able to let go or kill the other (despite it being the intelligent thing to do). The situation with Hannibal seeing Alana, the situation with Margot...

They're a mess. It's a tangled mess Will has gotten himself into. It hadn't been his intention, at least not in the beginning. He'd wanted to play but remain at a distance - safe. It became quickly evident that to reel Hannibal in - to catch him - he'd have to put himself up as bait, to become personal with Hannibal. ( _Intimate_. This is upping the ante. This should do the trick.)

Fuck. Jack isn't going to like this. Will doesn't think he'll like this later either. Hannibal is baring his throat. Where Will wants to bite... There will be a visible mark - a wound that will scar.

A darker part of Will wants to hurt - to wound Hannibal in any and all ways. This will... This would...

(Yes, it's still a bad idea. A horrible idea, really, but Will is committed to seeing it through nonetheless. He's this far down the path already. The end is near, isn't it?)

Hannibal follows suit. Standing smoothly and then boldly taking a step closer to him. Will listens as Hannibal speaks vaguely of circumstances and how an instinctual bond is 'overdue' for them. Will's lips quirk, but he doesn't fully grin. He's inclined to agree about that point too.

Hannibal comes closer yet and the realization of what he's going to do - what _they're_ going to do - is steadily being absorbed like a drug into Will's system. This is one way he can own Hannibal, claim him... Hannibal is fucking _allowing_ this - giving _him_ this.

(Will isn't ready to think about all the staggering implications.)

Hannibal comes to him. Willing. There's very little space between them. This is practically unheard of - bonding without having first kissed or during sex? But Hannibal's head tilts to the side and the offering goes straight to Will's dick. Will nods to Hannibal. The cultivation of his becoming... Yeah, maybe.

Will's hands come to bury in Hannibal's hair, not gripping too tightly as his head ducks in close. He noses along Hannibal's neck, inhaling Hannibal's scent. This close, even under aftershave and a light douse of cologne, Will can smell traces of Hannibal's true scent. It's fresh like sandalwood, like damp soil after a rainfall - petrichor. Will sighs, his fingers curling into soft strands. He should just bite (he will). Instead Will drags his stubble along Hannibal's skin, touching and breathing him in in a way they've never indulged in.

"You actually smell pretty nice," Will murmurs before kissing at Hannibal's pulse (strong and quick). He then licks down to a safer spot to bite. Will's mouth opens and he bites.

He bites hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to break skin and taste Hannibal's blood. Hard enough for there to be a wound for traces of his saliva to get into. Hard enough to bond.

* * *

Hannibal is expecting no fanfare, no fuss. Will has never been the one to bother with such things between them. It has always been Hannibal. Hannibal touching him, scenting him, bandaging the wounds that Hannibal had given him through a proxy. He is not typical of his kind, or so would say any scientists consulted on the matter. His features are not feminine and delicate, and his body is masculine, as he likes it. No one so much as suspects that he is an Omega until they're told, and Hannibal has not told many. It is far easier to lie, to play with biology, to test the limits of the human mind. To watch an Omega flinch when he growls, assuming him an Alpha, to watch other Alphas back down when he challenges them... learned behaviors are a fascinating study.

Though... a part of him wonders what _this_ is. What the ache in his chest could be contributed to as Will's scent becomes so much more apparent to him. He's cut back slowly on his cologne and the real scent of him is one that Hannibal would have buried his face into to breathe in were he so inclined. He's not been in the past, but maybe... if this is genuine...

Will leans in, and Hannibal is honestly expecting him to just bite. Hannibal breathes slowly, expecting the sting, his pulse already quickening in aching anticipation. So when Will simply breathes him in, when his hands come to bury in Hannibal's hair and his cheek drags stubble along Hannibal's throat, Hannibal's breath hitches noticeably in surprise.

He doesn't falter much, but given the shiver that slides through him and the ache of arousal - both internal and external - it's clear that Will has managed to catch him off guard. In this moment of likely-deception, Hannibal breathes Will's scent deeply into his lungs, aching to ask again to just _leave_ , to repeat himself with some level of desperation.

He doesn't.

Instead, he closes his eyes as Will's lips press to his pulse in a kiss they haven't shared in any other way. Hannibal has a moment to feel dizzy from the anticipation, and then he feels the sudden cutting pain of Will's teeth as they sink into his throat.

Hannibal doesn't do much more than exhale sharply. One of his hands comes up to rest on Will's shoulder, bracing himself, for this is monumental for Hannibal. Hannibal, who had so often vowed to _never_ take a mate, to _never_ grant that level of biological manipulation to another. He feels Will's teeth pierce deeply over a scent gland, and the knowledge that Will is forever changing him, is altering his desires with one bite, is achingly cruel.

Hannibal sinks into it with a soft sound, not pained, though it should be. It's still teeth deep in his neck. There is a reason that most mating bites happen during sex; endorphin and adrenaline ease the sting, but Hannibal feels it sharply, throbbing deep as blood wells up around Will's teeth and trickles out around the corners of his lips.

Hannibal feels the low ache of arousal and yet that is not what this has ever been about for them. He slides his hand up to Will's hair and curls his fingers into it, holding Will close as he breathes him in, finding the scent suddenly sharper as his focus is rewritten. He smells the low notes of cinnamon, of something earthen and fresh, like cedar and citrus. It is a heady mix that makes him ache.

"'Til death do us part," Hannibal breathes, the words wry, almost cynical in nature, for that is how a bonding bite is often seen. "Would-- ... is this to be a traditional bonding?" Hannibal asks, eyeing the thin line of Will's own throat that he can make out above the collar of his shirt.

* * *

Will's given lectures on bites - not with the focus on bonding - but instead in how to differentiate between a sadistic, violent bite and _this_... In this moment, it doesn't feel much different though. Instincts flare, a deceptive sense of _rightness_ and possession sliding over his senses. It's intoxicating in a way that Will isn't entirely prepared for.

He's never cared about the idea of ownership, of claiming. Such ideas seem archaic. Will's balked over bonding before. Hannibal had been right - he'd never intended to take a mate. And it hadn't even been about the possibility of making a child and passing on his genes. That could have been easily avoided in taking a male as a mate. Will hadn't wanted to ever be tied up in another and dependent, to be intimate in such a manner. Sex isn't always intimate.

But this _is_ intimate. His teeth break skin and he tastes Hannibal - tastes skin and then blood. Hannibal mirrors him, hands coming to wind into his hair. This is the closest they've ever been and despite the newness, it's not frightening. Will isn't backing away. Hannibal is warm and yielding and urges streak through Will far too fast to fully comprehend.

(The urge to push Hannibal against the wall and feel him up properly, to touch and take and lick and kiss--)

There may be an obvious arousal component to this all, but Will also wants to hold Hannibal. To have Hannibal press in close. For _them_ to be close, limbs entwined, eyes closed and hands wandering...

Then words are spoken. It takes Will a moment for them to filter through the haze. He blinks his eyes open and pulls away. When had he closed them? Before Will can think better of it, he's licking at his lips, tasting the remnants of blood.

Hannibal's blood... Not as strange as it should be.

Will can't think about the first statement. (Would there be peace for either of them in the event of death?) Traditional bonding has only the Alpha biting. Will doesn't need to allow...

"Why be traditional? That doesn't sound like us," Will says, his voice lower and clearly affected.

His hands leave Hannibal's hair, enjoying the slight disarray he's left in their wake. Will undoes the first few buttons on his shirt.

An eyebrow raises in a challenge. He's not going to guide Hannibal into it.

* * *

Hannibal can feel the stinging throb at his throat, can scent the sharp smell of blood, and he can feel the slow slide of it down the skin of his throat. Will isn't mentally present enough to notice, and Hannibal cannot blame him. If Will's instincts are responding as Hannibal's are, that Will has not shoved him to the floor and climbed atop him to bite deep and _hold_ is impressive. That Will has missed the trickle of blood that slides down and stains the line of Hannibal's collar is not upsetting. Hannibal is far too taken with the knowledge of what has just happened.

He can already feel the refocusing of his instincts, his senses narrowing down to a sharp, all-encompassing focus on Will, on his scent, the sounds he makes, the ache of arousal, the comfort of his presence. Yet Hannibal is not ruled by his instincts. He can observe them as one does a stray desire, an impulsive thought. He can label them and sneer at them when they become ridiculous (and a few of them definitely are). Yet not even Hannibal can bite back the small, displeased sound he makes when Will's teeth finally slide out of his skin.

Blood runs fresh and Hannibal glances down at Will, at the red stain on his lips that Will doesn't seem to notice as he chases the taste. It sends a small thrill through Hannibal's chest as he studies the dazed look in Will's eyes, and he finds himself both fond and interested at the sight.

It is _exceedingly_ rare for a mating bite to happen while not sexually intimate. The delirium of both parties is often put down to endorphin and the high of sex and intimacy, and yet to see Will now, to feel Hannibal's own response - the aching desire and need to crush Will close and keep him there - Hannibal knows that they have just disproved that belief.

It isn't the sex. It's the person. It's instinct. A lingering hold-out from their less-evolved ancestors.

Yet there is nothing instinctual about the answer that Will gives, and Hannibal's pulse quickens when he watches Will reach down to undo the buttons of his shirt. Hannibal swallows, heat rising along his skin. There are those who would condemn them for this; an Alpha willingly offering its throat is scandalous to most. Hannibal hardly spares them a thought. Instead, at the challenge in Will's eyes, Hannibal doesn't need to be guided or coaxed. In truth, he is perhaps more swift with it than Will had been.

He ducks his head and presses his slightly-stubbled cheek to Will's skin, breathing in deep. Hannibal clutches Will's hair tighter, a rumble of a sound in the back of his throat. He dares to press his lips to Will's throat, dares to soak in the sensation as long as it is permitted. Yet when Hannibal feels the desire rise within, he doesn't hold himself back. He bites suddenly and swiftly, jaw clenching and holding as he bites cleanly into Will's throat, over the left lateral scent gland. It's about as taboo as it's possible to be to most, and yet as Hannibal tastes the salt of Will's skin and then tastes the slower rush of blood over his tongue and lips, he feels the shiver of desire, of hope, and of violence compound even higher. His fingers wind in Will's hair, slowly angling his neck to stretch it properly, and Hannibal holds the bite until his lips are stained with red like the wine he'd been sipping at before.

* * *

Will's never liked being out of control. He's never liked thinking of himself as a victim of circumstance, as powerless or helpless. That's why he'd been so furious at Hannibal deceiving him, at the betrayal. He'd been a fool. Naive. Trusting. Hannibal had slowly won him over, like Will had been like an abused stray - wary and prickly - but he'd gradually padded over to Hannibal's outstretched hand.

This is shaking everything up. He's tasted Hannibal's blood. He's reached out and touched. Bitten. _Bonded_. Is it all for the game? Will's not certain of the rules, of the parameters. He feels stranded - gridlocked - because he's certain he doesn't want Hannibal to _die,_ but shouldn't the wicked be punished? Hannibal needs to suffer. Actions have consequences. Hannibal needs to _pay_ like he's paid.

Will's hard. So hard. Harder than he would like to be. It's confusing. Maybe his body instinctually knows that bonding should transpire during sex. That's the norm... And yet he knows they've bonded. Hannibal looks shaken up as well. Disheveled and delicious. Oh, there's still the urge to lunge at Hannibal and punch him in his stupid exotic face, but there's also the telling desire for nearness, a desperation to lose himself in all things Hannibal.

The only logical reason to allow Hannibal to bite him is to further this ruse, to ease any of Hannibal's possible doubts (while simultaneously creating more for himself). Will's never cared for norms and traditions. He almost wants to see the scandalized look from others when they noticed the mark on his neck. _Oh, my, an Alpha that allowed himself to be bitten!_

Hannibal doesn't wait. He doesn't waffle about. Hannibal leans in and Will tilts his head in invitation. He can't deny the perverse thrill that's growing from this. He's never been bitten before. A nibble, a few suck-marks from eager Betas... This will be something else entirely. This is meaningful. Dangerous. This is him giving the middle finger to expectations, throwing caution to the wind.

He groans as Hannibal's mouth touches his throat. Will's hands clench at his side. When teeth meet his skin, Will's eyes widen. When Hannibal's mouth clamps down, pain blossoms. Will hisses but doesn't draw back. It needs to bleed... Will breathes in a ragged breath.

It's over too quick. Will doesn't know how he feels as he pulls away and sees his blood on Hannibal's lips. Hannibal's neck is bloody, a trail of red present and staining his collar. Hannibal has never looked more beautiful than he does now.

His hands shoot up to grab onto Hannibal's suit jacket.

"Your room. Bed. Now" Will growls out. He shoves at Hannibal to get him moving, to get Hannibal to lead the way because Will's never explored this house.

* * *

Omegas are not supposed to bite. While society has lessened the grips on what a typical Omega is allowed to do as opposed to a century ago, there are still holdouts. Omegas are still targeted by ads to sweeten their scents, to remove their body hair, to make them soft and desirable, to romanticize their instincts. Alphas are still targeted by ads denoting violence and power and boisterous dominance. There is a reason that Hannibal has hidden his gender for so long, has allowed everyone to believe him an Alpha.

At his core, and at the cores of many Alphas and Omegas, they are not dissimilar. It's nurture, not nature, not entirely. Yet as Hannibal feels the spill of Will's blood hot over his tongue, feels the feral dominance and possessiveness inherent in the claim, he cannot deny the thrill that shoots through him, nor the ache within. So he bites harder. He bites until the wounds are deep and blood has more than stained his lips.

When he draws back, he's breathing harder, his hair is a mess, and his pupils have blown wide. The scent of Will's arousal is thick on the air, and Hannibal knows his own is likely not much better. He can feel the throbbing of need even as he shoves it back. He has never lost himself to this before. He has been in Will's presence, has been close to him before, and he has never lost his control. He has no intention of making this anything other than what it is.

Hannibal wets his lips, blatantly savoring the taste of Will's blood, rich and heavy on his tongue. He looks at Will, at the mess of his hair, at the wild glint that slides over his eyes. Yet Hannibal is still not expecting it when Will reaches out to grab his suit jacket. The force throws him somewhat off balance, and Hannibal is surprised but not displeased by the show of strength. The idea that he has chosen well _burns_ in his mind like a brand. When Will _growls_ his command, Hannibal is torn on whether he wishes to comply because of the way his instincts flare or because he _wants_ to. His eyes darken in indecision, but when Will shoves at him, he's moving before he's chosen whether or not he wants to.

Dinner is left on the table, Hannibal's wine left behind. He strides purposefully, each step long as he leads Will up the stairs to his bedroom. Hannibal works his tie off, feeling a restlessness prickling sharply under his skin, an impulsive _want_ that hastens his movements. His throat throbs as it bleeds sluggishly, unhappily, but Hannibal basks in it as he pulls off his tie and shoulders the door to his bedroom open.

If this is a deception, it is a _very_ poor idea to allow this endeavor to continue, but for once, Hannibal doesn't wish to think about it. He has never truly hungered for Will in his bed in any serious capacity, but fantasies and desires in the middle of the night never care about logic or sense. In the room filled with finery, the softest blankets and silks - Hannibal's main concession to his instincts - and awash in Hannibal's scent, he turns to Will, to his mate, and reaches out to him.

He draws Will in with strong hands, and yet Hannibal does not kiss him. He goes for Will's throat instead, his teeth sharp as they scrape over the blood on his throat. Hannibal hastily shrugs out of his suit jacket, then kicks off his shoes.

It is then _his_ turn to shove, and as Hannibal's teeth threaten to bite again, he spins them both until Will's knees strike the edge of the mattress. Hannibal pushes, and when gravity dictates Will's actions from there, Hannibal wastes no time in climbing atop him, pressing him back against the silken sheets.

* * *

Will doesn't sleep around with Omegas if he can help it. It's usually Betas or his hand. Omegas come with extra complications and Will has always had enough complications of his own. He'd rather not potentially exacerbate his situation... although can he really claim that _now?_ Since Hannibal he's done nothing _but_ that.

From Hannibal's demeanor, Will had honestly believed that Hannibal was an Alpha. That assumption had Will inherently relaxing a little and continuing to see Hannibal. Yeah, discrimination is a shitty thing to do, but Will can't help it. He doesn't care for all the gender politics, for the potential complications of heats and bonding - all the instinctual bullshit that was generally made worse by Omegas or other jerk Alphas. Betas were a nice, middle ground.

This right now is a spectacular display of base urges and animalistic behavior. It's all recklessness and an insatiable hunger that he _knows_ Hannibal can satisfy. Will's never been this goddamn desperate before. It's got to be the tense situation coming up. Their end. The bond.

It doesn't matter. He needs and wants and he'll _have_.

Hannibal must agree because he starts moving and Will is following. Is it the blind leading the blind? Will doesn't know. He doesn't care. He takes quick steps, following closely behind Hannibal as they ascend to the second floor in the lavish house. In the back of his mind, Will remembers that Hannibal is willing to leave all of this behind... (For _him_.)

When he'd been made aware of Hannibal actually being an Omega, Will couldn't help but be curious about Hannibal in _that way_. He's never had a craving for Heat sex like some, but there had been something oddly appealing about thinking of Hannibal so out of control. Given everything that had transpired between them, Will didn't let himself fantasize often. Fucking Hannibal, killing Hannibal... He's honestly thought about both.

Hannibal's tie is pulled off. Will gives a quick, dismissive glance around the room. It's about what he'd expect. Large bed. Furnished nicely. Art. He's still not nervous. It's like this evening is so far in left field that it feels like time has stopped. This moment is removed from reality. _They're_ removed from reality. (The reality of an impending betrayal, but can he really go through with it now? Whose side is he on? Why does it feel like no one is on _his_ side?)

Before Will can think to start undressing, to at least yank his shirt off, Hannibal is on him. A mouth is on his neck and he hears and feels Hannibal's suit jacket haphazardly removed along with shoes (Will's boots are by the front door, of course). Then Hannibal pushes him, teeth sharp against his neck as Will's more or less positioned to fall over onto the bed. Will's a little annoyed, but not really.

Hannibal is not the traditional Omega, but Will isn't the traditional Alpha either. Has he ever really cared about fitting a role? Will finds himself pleasantly surprised as Hannibal crawls on top of him. It's a comfortable warmth, a comfortable weight. Then it's hands grabbing at Hannibal, pulling him closer as Will kisses at Hannibal's neck, lapping at the wound. His hands pull at Hannibal's shirt, untucking it while shamelessly grinding up.

The clothing is another layer - a barrier between them. Will won't have it.

"Hold on, get off of me for a second," Will gasps out, squirming. He pushes at Hannibal's shoulders. "Clothes. Need 'em off."

Hannibal complies a beat later and they take up the task of undressing. It's done quickly, clothes unceremoniously thrown to the floor, something that Hannibal normally would care about.

But not now.

Hannibal turns on a side lamp. They're both naked now and Will reaches out this time and pulls Hannibal on top of him.

"You want to fuck me, don't you?" Will asks suddenly.

The question hadn't been fully realized until he'd voiced it, but he knows it's yes.

* * *

It's like a switch has been flipped in Hannibal's mind, like nothing exists but this moment. He knows it's a fallacy, knows that tomorrow will either go very well or very poorly, and only Will's resolve will decide. It is Will's choice now. Hannibal would leave with him, would go _now_ if he were to just _pick_ , but he hasn't. Perhaps he's muddied the waters with this sudden change in position - in status - but the baseline still remains. Tomorrow, either Jack will die, or Will is going to, and the ache in Hannibal's chest at the thought of the latter is bitter on a number of levels.

So he doesn't think about it. Instead, he gives into a side of himself that he has rarely allowed. Even during his affairs, Hannibal has never allowed himself to lose control, to give into baser instincts. He's never allowed another to mount him, not even during the few heats he'd had during his youth. Those had been spent sequestered away, jaw tight, riding out the worst of it until he'd found suppressants that had worked to negate that side of himself. He's never slept with an Alpha, never dared to skirt the line of their senses during sex. Betas, with their muted senses and prevalence in society, and other Omegas, who had understood if they'd ever realized it, yes, but never an Alpha. Not until now.

There's a hunger burning wildly under Hannibal's skin as he presses Will to the bed and climbs atop him. Hands grab at him, yanking at his shirt and vest, and Hannibal might have cared before, but not now. How long has he ached for this man? How long has he _wanted?_ Feeling Will's hands grabbing, feeling the warmth of his tongue, the sting of it over the bite he'd sunk deep into Hannibal's neck, Hannibal returns the haste. He grinds down as Will presses up, and so when Will _stops_ and gasps and squirms, Hannibal seriously weighs the benefit of getting off of him.

When Will cites his reason - too much clothing - Hannibal reluctantly acquiesces. He leans back, letting Will up, and together they hastily strip out of their remaining clothing. Hannibal's slacks and vest slide to the floor (he _should_ care, but he doesn't) and he watches as Will's clothes follow suit. Then he doesn't care about the clothing at all, as Will is bare for him.

Hannibal turns on a side lamp and breathes in, Will's scent sudden and strong. Hannibal wishes nothing more than to bite him to bleeding again, to mark up paler skin, to ensure at least one of the bites will scar permanently. There is a vicious hunger in Hannibal's eyes as he looks Will over, his lip twitching in the faintest hint of a snarl.

He _is_ surprised when Will pulls him down again, as instead of attempting to shove him down and climb on top of him, as any _other_ Alpha would have done (which Hannibal thinks he _might_ have allowed...), Will pulls Hannibal down on top of him. Hannibal rumbles a soft sound, a growl that many would argue he shouldn't _have_ , and he scrapes rougher, biting kisses down the blood-stained line of Will's throat.

He's just fastened his lips over the wound he'd inflicted in order to get the blood flowing again when Will's question draws him up short. The thrill of his words rips up Hannibal's spine like claws and he exhales a harsher hiss against Will's skin, desire curling rough through him.

"Do you object?" Hannibal asks, almost _demanding_ , given how rough his voice sounds.

He nips sharply under Will's chin, as if mocking an Alpha's typical instincts to almost never allow another near their throats. Then he bites again for good measure, scraping his teeth roughly over the rise of Will's throat as one of his hands slide down Will's chest. Hannibal touches him possessively, from chest to thigh, where his hand grips tight to pull Will's leg up high enough to hitch against Hannibal's hip. The positioning presses their cocks together and Hannibal shudders, grinding down against the heat of Will's body.

* * *

Male Omegas still fuck. Their dicks still work. Granted, it's other Omegas or Betas. It's _never_ Alphas. Alphas don't usually give it up - at least very rarely. If they do bottom, it's for a Beta or another Alpha. Never an Omega, never the supposedly weaker sex. Will's never been fucked before. But he still has a prostate... Thanks to an adventurous Beta, he's had a few fingers inside of him and overall it had been a strange but favorable experience. Will's sure Hannibal has fucked more than _been_ _fucked_ , and it's an interesting thought to think about...

This is... Taboo. Sacrilegious. Insane.

But Hannibal is a proud outlier in many aspects. Hannibal doesn't hide from God - bold and unrepentant, a destructive violent Omega. (Although Will could have sworn the care and support Hannibal offered Abigail had been real...)

Will's never put much stock in stereotypes and expectations of their secondary genders. People are still people. They lie and hurt, they're twisted and while most of the killers he hunts down aren't Omegas, a few had been like Stammets - an Omega.

 

Without their clothing, Hannibal's scent is stronger. It calls to him like a refuge - _home_. Sandalwood and petrichor, the smell of the rain on dry land - earthy and sweet. Will hears the small growl and he honestly doesn't know if he should be amused or surprised by its presence. Will's never heard of other Omegas growling, but leave it up Hannibal. Rough kisses are being placed on his neck, over the wound when he asks his question.

The scary thing is, even though he knows that it should be degrading to even think it, let alone utter the words, the idea doesn't actually _bother_ him that much. It's Hannibal - his mate - consuming and demanding like he always has been...

Hannibal's question in return is enough of a yes. The sudden nip has Will jerking, but it's not bad. His nails scratch down Hannibal's back as Hannibal returns to his neck and bites again. There's an urge to pull away, to not allow it, to be incredulous that he's exposing such a vulnerable spot to another, but Will stamps it down. He opens his mouth to answer but then Hannibal is hitching his leg up and the position brings their dicks together and it's good. It really is. Hannibal grinds down and Will pushes up.

His hands grasp at Hannibal's arms, he grips tight. "I should... I should object," Will rasps out.

But there is a sick curiosity to this. There is a part of him that wants Hannibal in _all_ ways, why should they stick to the usual? The socially acceptable? Murder and cannibalism aren't acceptable.

"But... I'll let you, Hannibal." The permission comes with an odd sense of relief. "Just make it good. Come on." His hands squeeze at Hannibal's biceps, needing him to get going.

* * *

A bite for a scratch seems a fair trade, especially when the sudden claw of Will's nails against Hannibal's back stings sharply. Hannibal grunts, a soft sound of approval, and he arches his back into it as his teeth find Will's throat again, biting hard enough to bruise but not to mark, not again. Not yet.

There is so much more to explore, to familiarize himself with, and Hannibal aches with the knowledge that there is not enough time. Perhaps were he less frenzied, he'd have taken his time, learned every place on Will's body that left him gasping, and taken him apart like that. But regardless of how many times he tries to remind himself that Will has not yet _decided_... a part of him still suspects.

If this is the only time that Hannibal can have this, he isn't about to give Will the time he needs to back down. He knows this man enough to know that he'll respond to a whirlwind of sensation and emotion more than a slow, careful lovemaking.

So Hannibal bites. He grabs. He traps Will's leg and holds his thigh tight enough to bruise as he grinds his cock down against Will's, feeling the silken slide of skin, dry as it might be right now. It feels _good_ , sets his skin burning with need. Even When Will's hands come to Hannibal's biceps to grip tightly, he doesn't protest. It stings; it bruises, and he _likes_ the feeling. Hannibal flexes his muscles under Will's hands to feel the ache, and he blatantly drags in a deep breath of Will's scent as he chases the last traces of blood from his lips.

Yet regardless of how much Hannibal wants this, he is not entirely expecting Will to give in. So when he _does_ , when he offers his permission, the realization of what Will is allowing curls through him almost violently. Hannibal's groan is soft but deep, a shudder prickling through his skin. The request (the _command_ ) to 'make it good' only compounds it and Hannibal nods, scraping his teeth over Will's clavicle only once before drawing back.

Were this any other situation, he'd have taken his time, but that is not what Will needs. Hannibal doesn't ask him about his history (right now, he'd _kill_ anyone who had seen Will like this before him). He doesn't ask Will if he's done this before. Hannibal just reaches out to the table beside his bed and withdraws a clear, expensive-looking bottle of lube. He's already reaching for it, already set to begin, when another whim strikes him.

It is not something that Hannibal has done before, as he's typically far more content to ignore the Omegan side of himself. But as he looks at Will spread out beneath him - the flush to his cheeks, the heat of his cock, the dark, wild mess of his hair - he finds that he wants to push the boundaries. He wants to challenge this man.

All Omegas produce some slick when aroused, though males rarely make enough to have sex without lubrication when not in heat. Hannibal's always attempted to ignore that aspect of his biology. He's familiar with the ache, the need, and he's always ignored it. But now, looking down at Will, at the desire-and-relief etched plainly into his expression, Hannibal wants to push harder. He wants Will to _feel_ the ramifications of his decision. He wants this moment to linger.

Hannibal rubs his cheek against Will's throat, breathing in his scent. As he nuzzles there, encouraging more of Will's scent to rub against him - replacing any previous 'claim' that Alana might have once attempted - he reaches back with one hand. Hannibal shivers; he still aches, he's still sensitive as he presses against his hole with two fingers, feeling the slight slick that merely being bitten had produced. Yet instead of pressing inside of himself, he gathers it onto his fingers, spreads it around, and then shifts.

"I will make it _very_ good, Will," Hannibal promises, his voice rough with desire. He nips once more, lower along Will's clavicle. "Lift your hips for me, and spread your legs as best as you can."

Will complies, albeit in a manner that makes it clear that he isn't familiar with this particular action. Muscle memory is not in his favor and the sight goes straight to Hannibal's cock, making him ache. That Will is _allowing_ this... he shivers. When he has enough room, when Will's hips lift and his legs spread enough to reach, Hannibal reaches between them. He doesn't hesitate. He finds Will's hole, shuddering at the heat of it, and he presses his slick-coated fingers to it, coating Will's hole thickly with Hannibal's own scent before beginning to stroke and rub. He teases the idea of more, pressing against the hot skin but never pressing _in._ It won't take Will long to realize what he's doing.

* * *

It's now or never. The curtain is closing on them, the lights coming down, walls closing in. Will doesn't want to think about what's going down tomorrow evening, the implications, the choices, their _consequences_... Because there's still a choice, right? That's the thing. Will wants to think he's decided. He does. Logic dictates that he be Jack's man. His head knows Hannibal needs to be caught - the Ripper needs to be stopped... but his heart? His heart isn't so sure.

Will's heart is a little unsteady. Hannibal is a sly lover whispering dark promises while tightening the noose. Will's already been hung before. It hadn't killed him, but it had destroyed a part of him. He's been hardened by Hannibal. Edges sharpened.

This moment, although heated and charged and alien, feels steady. They're both hungry, ravenous things. They're both throwing caution to the wind. They've talked, but it's been veiled words. Will's afraid to look past the carnal desire he sees in Hannibal's face. Will doesn't know how much trust he has. If declining the offer to leave tonight has painted him a suspect. There are too many variables. How can he be certain that Hannibal is unsuspecting? He can't, is the thing.

So they will indulge and partake of this particular drug. A veritable ‘Fuck you’ to the masses, to the naysayers that judge Omegas biting back after a Bond, to the purists who believe Alphas should never willingly submit to be fucked. Will's never _wanted_ to be fucked. There's still a part of him that's incredulous that Hannibal would even deign to think that he would allow it...

But he is. He's given his permission. His neck burns from the bites, but his body is hot and receptive to the presence and touch of Hannibal. Hannibal groans in response, a soft but low sound that Will finds he likes. Will knows what Hannibal is reaching for. No question is asked. It's lube. Will's familiar with the process, but he's never been stretched with the intention of getting fucked afterward.

But the lube isn't opened. Hannibal seems to consider him and Will wonders what's going on in that storm of a mind that is Hannibal Lecter. Will doesn't feel overly submissive, they feel closer to equals at this moment. It's interesting. It gets more interesting as Hannibal decides to nuzzle at his throat and reach back. Will feels the movement then he _hears_ the slide of wetness - it's slick. Hannibal is a little wet from what they've done. The scent rises to his nostrils and Will wants to lick and taste it, to become intimate with Hannibal and all his taste and responses.

Before he can think to do anything, Hannibal is speaking, his words and tone confident. Hannibal is going to make it _very_ good apparently. Will's cock throbs, he wants to fuck Hannibal's wet hole, to grab the lube, coat his fingers and do the bare minimum before pushing in--

Instead, Will listens to Hannibal. He fights down the urges to fuck and knot. He awkwardly spreads his legs, his body thrumming with anticipation and arousal. Once he settles completely on display for Hannibal, Hannibal wastes no time. Wet fingers seek out his hole, and Hannibal's _slick_ is rubbed against him. It's wicked and almost taunting, but Will also delights in it. He shudders from the sensitivity, with the knowledge that he's going to allow this - no, that he _want_ this.

" _Fuck,_ " Will hisses out, his eyes closing as his body tenses. "All wet for me, huh?" He asks back. Typical Alpha dirty talk, but whatever.

"Come on." Impatience. It feels like there's enough slick for at least one finger to push inside - at least the tip, surely.

* * *

It's taunting. This is about as taunting as Hannibal can manage without dragging his fingers close to Will's face, forcing Will to scent what he isn't being permitted to have. Despite everything else that they are, Hannibal is still an Omega, and Will is still an Alpha, and certain desires _are_ instinctual. Yet as Hannibal's fingers press against Will's hole, feeling the tightness to his heat, the resistance to entry, he knows that Will can still smell him.

Hannibal watches, feeling an odd mix of satisfaction, need, and a stubborn smugness as Will blatantly scents the air. Hannibal can scent the increase in Will's arousal in response and the thought is both thrilling and frustrating, as a part of him doesn't _want_ instincts to color this moment. Yet they are what they are. Hannibal can no more control Will's response to the scent of his slick than he can control his own body's production of it. But he _can_ use it to his advantage.

Will's curse is music to his ears, and as arousing as Will's response is, Hannibal still hums, almost dismissively, and his teeth sink into Will's throat once more. It's a slightly more punishing bite, a reminder that he's not _just_ an Omega, and perhaps that irritation is still playing a part when Hannibal heeds Will's request.

"Yes," he breathes against Will's throat. "All wet for you. So that _you_ may be wet for _me_."

On the final word, Hannibal stops rubbing his slick fingers over Will's hole and instead he slowly presses inside. He uses only one finger; much as he'd like to press and claim in full, he knows he's not wet enough to _only_ ready Will with his slick. That doesn't stop him from doing what he can, though. Despite his mild irritation, Hannibal still is careful, pressing slow but deep, feeling Will's muscles clench around him in a way that makes him feel almost dizzy with it. Hannibal shudders, his cock aching, and his rougher bites ease into sharp kisses as Will responds beautifully beneath him. The thrill of doing this to an Alpha is overshadowed only by the knowledge that he is being permitted to do it to _Will_. As rough as Will clearly needs it to be, Hannibal will not hurt him.

So he kisses down Will's chest. He teases his nipples to hardness with his tongue and teeth and works them until they're sensitive and red. Hannibal doesn't keep him waiting, doesn't stagnate him on one sensation. He gives Will as much as he needs in order to relax, working him up attentively. He's able to reach back for more slick just once, enough to make fitting two fingers inside of Will comfortable, but when he feels just how tight Will is, how unused to relaxing under this sensation he is, Hannibal isn't willing to risk giving him a third just like this.

Hannibal reaches for the lube then, coating his three fingers only when he feels that Will can take them. Hannibal slowly kisses his way down the quivering muscles of Will's abdomen as he rubs his fingers against his hole. He lets the anticipation build, lets the both of them feel the ache of what they _want_ , and when Hannibal slowly presses two fingers back in and then carefully introduces a third, he leans down enough to lap at the head of Will's cock as well.

He doesn't dare suck, doesn't give Will too much sensation, merely enough to distract him from the burn as Hannibal presses deep with his fingers, setting up a slow, careful rhythm of thrusts that end with a pointed curl of Hannibal's fingers. There _is_ a benefit to sleeping with a doctor, after all.

"You feel exquisite," Hannibal breathes, mouthing kisses up the length of Will's cock, never sucking, never lingering, just delivering sensation. "I can only imagine how _good_ you'll feel wrapped around me properly, Will."

* * *

If Hannibal goes slow, if he teases or taunts further, Will's out. He's not here for any fucking candlelit lovemaking, for a record to be put on, for Hannibal to wine and dine him... Well, he's already been wined and dined multiple times now, so, isn't it about time they screw? But if Hannibal gloats in any way, if he rubs the fact that he's consenting to this in his face, Will is going to flip his shit. It doesn't matter how horny he is, he'll bolt. He'll promptly pull on his clothes and storm out. He doesn't care if he'd be a drama queen for doing it - a cliched pissed off Alpha - Will has limits.

Will can smell the slick, its tempting sweetness. Not overpowering, not like it would be during a Heat, but sweet enough and a variation of Hannibal that Will can't help but be able to pick up on. And Hannibal is fucking smearing it against his hole, physically teasing him and working him up. There is arousal, there is also an antsy nervous feeling at giving this up for Hannibal... but if Hannibal is willing to give up his entire life, his practice, his home...

Another bite comes his way after his somewhat snarky comment. Will's jaw clenches. His hands clench at the bedsheets. It hurts, but it's not a bad hurt. It's something he observes with interest, that Hannibal seems to like biting or at least biting _him_.

' _All wet for you. So that **you** may be wet for **me**.'_

It's undoubtedly a demeaning comment, but Will likes the show of attitude. If he'd been any other Alpha, he's certain the remark would have sparked a fight. Instead, Will just chuckles, taking in a quick breath as Hannibal's finger slowly pushes inside. It's awkward just like it had been the first time. It's an uncomfortable stretch that has Will clenching despite knowing that he _shouldn't._ Will's eyes open and he stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Will breathes in deep and quick, trying to get his body to relax.

It becomes easier when Hannibal's mouth gives him attention, kissing down his chest. Tongue and teeth meet his nipples and it has Will twitching, his expression torn. He's unsure if he likes the sensations, but they keep him on edge and help distract from the real task at hand.

Steadily, Hannibal works him open, but it's still difficult. Will still struggles with allowing it. Hannibal chooses to go for more lube which Will knows should help. He bites his bottom lip, straining to stay still as the stretch intensifies when another finger is added.

Hannibal's slick and lubed up fingers sound obscene as they push into his body. Will's eyes shut again and he's pleasantly surprised when a tongue swipes against his dick. It's a tease, the barest hint of another kind of wetness, but it doesn't last. Instead, Hannibal's fingers slowly thrust inside of him and Will is left gasping as the pads of those fingers curl against his prostate every so often.

Will's close to cursing out Hannibal as Hannibal's mouth brushes over his dick in a mockery of a kiss but never actually sucks. Will wiggles his toes and squirms, trying to not be noisy, wishing this would go quicker. (He doesn't like being at the mercy of those hands.)

' _I can only imagine how **good** you'll feel wrapped around me properly, Will.'_

"Then let's do it properly," Will shoots back, purposefully pushing down onto Hannibal's fingers. "Come on, no condom, just fuck me already."

Will's sweaty, his bangs curling and his hands gripping the sheets hard. He wants to grab onto Hannibal's head and push his mouth down on his dick, but that'd be the epitome of 'rude' and they both know what they really want.

* * *

Hannibal can practically feel the vibration of restless energy under Will's skin, and were he certain that Will would remain were he to indulge, Hannibal thinks he'd like indulging, like seeing how far he could push this man. Now is not the time. Hannibal isn't certain whether there will ever _be_ a time. He can sense Will's restlessness, can feel the squirming, and he knows that he has a time limit before Will demands more. Given that Hannibal has no desire to struggle with him, to fight off Will's attempt to mount him instead out of frustration, he does hasten the pace. Will is going to ache after but it's better to ask forgiveness than permission in this instance.

So when Will snarls out his response, when Hannibal feels him press back against his fingers and take them back in _deep_ , Hannibal feels a visceral shudder tear through him. He muffles a soft sound at how _tight_ Will is around his fingers, how good and silken he feels on the inside, and while a part of him wishes to deny Will simply to show that he _can_ , Hannibal doesn't want to.

He looks at the beautiful picture of debauchery that Will makes, his bangs plastered to his forehead, his skin glistening with sweat, his cock hard and flushed at the tip, chest heaving and nipples red. Hannibal wets his lips, chasing the remnants of Will's taste as he draws away from his cock. Then, after a moment, Hannibal slides his fingers free of the tight clench of Will's muscles.

"You'll ache," Hannibal warns, but his voice is rough with desire as he reaches for the lube. "You could use further preparation... but I know you don't wish that."

Hannibal eases in closer. He knows that Will probably would prefer to hide his face, to have Hannibal flip him onto his stomach to take him from behind, but Hannibal has no plans to do that. On top of risking Will's instincts (for being in that position might make him lash out) Hannibal wants to _see_ him.

So when he coats his hand in lube and reaches down to stroke over his own cock, shivering at the sensation and the aching pleasure of what is happening and what is yet to come, Hannibal doesn't let Will turn over. He holds him there and nudges him up, forcing Will's legs to spread around his hips as Hannibal braces himself above Will and coats his cock until it's nearly dripping with lube.

Hannibal then stops and merely looks at him, his own hair a mess, bangs falling into his eyes, the bite on his throat red and angry. Hannibal eyes the bloodied bite on Will's throat and for a single moment, he lets himself dwell on what the sight means.

If just for this one moment, Will is _his_. Hannibal will never desire another; his biology won't allow it. It's perhaps the only time he's ever felt grateful for being an Omega.

He doesn't insult Will by asking him if he's ready. Instead he eases in closer and reaches down, positioning himself properly. Hannibal guides one of Will's legs up and around his waist, holding it there, keeping him spread. He draws his foreskin back, pressing the aching head of his cock to Will's hole. And, with a faint curl of his lip that is more snarl than anything, Hannibal slowly begins to press inside, feeling the thrill of the moment down to his core.

Will's body resists, as Hannibal had expected it to, but he strokes the sensitive skin along the underside of Will's thigh, murmuring soft, rougher instructions ("relax for me; it will hurt less if you relax") and when Will's body finally does begin to give, Hannibal presses in harder.

A rough, tight sound escapes him as he bends down and mouths at the would-be mating bite on Will's throat, feeling the hot, tight clench of Will's body suddenly around him in its entirety. Hannibal's lips part on something that feels like a mix between a gasp and a growl, and he scrapes his teeth over the bite, groaning tightly as he presses in deep with a breathless snarl of Will's name.

* * *

Hannibal had been tender with Abigail, fitting into those paternal shoes with an ease Will had been jealous of. He'd been tender washing Will's bloody knuckles too, tender with him in the stables. When Hannibal hasn't been rough tonight, he's been _careful_. Not tender. Will's pretty sure can tell the difference. He knows Hannibal would rather stretch him more - to work him open further - but laying here vulnerable and being only able to take it, is a conscious effort on Will's part.

Of course, there's a chance that Hannibal could be a dick and simply deny him. Hannibal could even cite the need to take precaution and it would be _reasonable_.

But they are not reasonable men right now. Nothing about their relationship has been reasonable. Back and forth they circle each other like leery wolves. They've each had opportunities to kill the other, but they hadn't taken them. Will hadn't squeezed the trigger. Will hadn't left Hannibal to Mason's men. Hannibal hadn't killed him. Hannibal had opted to frame him and then have him released even...

Yes, being alone comes with an ache that they--

Fingers are removed and Will's oddly shaken at the feeling of emptiness left in its wake. A warning is given to him and it's ironic that Hannibal uses the word _ache._ Will says nothing in response. He opens his eyes and stares defiantly down at Hannibal. Will isn't going to back out of this just because of a physical discomfort.

Will is expecting to be flipped onto his stomach and mounted in the traditional Alpha fashion.

Hannibal doesn't do it. Instead, Hannibal gets more lube and smears it over his dick, leaving Will on his back with his legs spread open. Will watches, feeling connected and invested in this moment. His heart pounds in his chest as Hannibal comes closer - comes between his legs. They're doing it _this way,_ then. Face-to-face. Eyes open and expressions available. So be it. Will isn't going to complain, he's not going to close his eyes either. If this is going to bury him, he'll face the landslide.

Before Hannibal actually begins, Hannibal gazes down at him. They both look disheveled and sweaty, their necks a twin mess of blood and bonding. Will knows he's got bruises from Hannibal's teeth in other spots too. Then Hannibal is pressing in closer, a hand reaching to hook Will's leg around his waist to ensure he keeps his legs open (as if he'd fight at this point?). Hannibal's hand positions his dick against Will's slick asscheeks and then it's a slow advance.

Will tries to heed the instruction to relax, he breathes in slow, deep breaths as Hannibal breaches him. The head is the thickest to get in - Will knows - and now he's experiencing it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, it burns, but then the most painful part is over and Hannibal inches his way in carefully. Will's eyes widen as teeth graze over the bitemark. It has Will's arms moving and wrapping around Hannibal's back, pulling him closer.

It's intense and overwhelming in a way Will hadn't been prepared for. Will's senses are alight, pressure and fullness and Hannibal's familiar weight and smell swirl around him. Will's mouth opens to say something - to say anything - but only Hannibal's name comes out.

He sounds wrecked, his voice thick with emotion Will doesn't want to face. That Will _can't_ face. He gradually relaxes as Hannibal bottoms out. Will shakes as his hands smooth down the planes of Hannibal's back, enjoying the feel of muscle underneath soft, sweaty skin.

"Can't believe I'm doing this," he murmurs. "--We're doing this," he amends. His nails then dig into Hannibal's shoulder blades.

"Make me feel it, Hannibal. I can take it."

An order? A plea? Perhaps both.

* * *

There is a very real part of Hannibal that expects Will to protest, to snarl, to shove at him, to _bite_. Hannibal has dealt with his fair share of Alphas before, though none have known of his status. Aggravated clients, Budge, past kills... Hannibal knows how Alphas backed into a corner tend to respond. So that Will doesn't lash out, that he actually listens to Hannibal's instructions and breathes, slow and deep, as Hannibal sinks into the hot, gripping tightness of his body is nothing short of dizzying. Hannibal's own breath escapes him on a soft rush, but the true sensation heightens when Will reaches out with both of his arms and Hannibal feels Will's hands grip at his back. Will pulls and Hannibal doesn't fight it, willingly letting Will pull him in closer, almost chest to chest as Hannibal pushes deep into Will's body.

He can scent Will's pleasure just as well as he can scent his pain. More than anything, though, is the sound of Will's voice tripping over his name as he grips tightly at his back. Hannibal feels the crush of Will's desire, can tell how _wrecked_ this man is by sensation. In this unguarded moment where Will is too awash in sensation to notice, Hannibal finally presses a gentle kiss to his throat, lingering, and he greedily breathes Will's scent deep into his lungs, imagining a scenario where he would never have to let it out again. He does; sadly he cannot subsist on the scent of his mate alone, and with Will working with him carefully, Hannibal steadily presses in deeper until he bottoms out.

Hannibal has had affairs before; he's no stranger to the tight, clenching heat of a willing body, and yet...

And yet Will's body is a searing, clenching heat around him that leaves him feeling dizzy with the desire to act. He can feel the way Will's muscles tremble around him. He can feel the shake in his hands, and he's quietly stunned that when Will's hands carve a path over his back, it is merely with his palms, not his nails. It is unexpectedly, _deeply_ intimate and the knowledge threatens to rend Hannibal open with far greater focus than Will's nails could have. He shudders and breathes sharply, breath hissing between his teeth, and he arches his back into Will's touch, burying his face against Will's neck and pressing biting, sucking kisses to sore skin. It is only then that Will's nails come into play and the sound that Hannibal makes is breathless with satisfaction.

"You'll feel it," he breathes against Will's throat, his voice low and equally wrecked as his cock throbs and a single line of slick drips down the inside of one of his thighs. "Every time you breathe, every time you move, every time you so much as _think_ of me, you will feel it. Feel me."

Yet despite his promise, when Hannibal slowly draws his hips back and rocks them back in the first few times - little more than shallow thrusts - he is exceedingly careful. He delights in Will's trembling, in his need, in the tight, aching heat of his body. Hannibal uses his cock to stretch instead of his fingers, and when he deems Will ready (though he is likely not, not for what Hannibal intends), he shifts just enough to better adjust his position. He instructs Will to wrap his legs around Hannibal's waist, tells him to keep them there, to dig his heels in if he needs to.

And as he draws back once more, out to the feel the tight rim of Will's hole gripping around the head of his cock, he adds, "you may use your nails, or bite, if you wish," before he braces himself and snaps his hips forward, feeling the exquisite pleasure of _having_ Will, finally, after so long.

He heeds Will's request. His thrusts are not gentle. Each snap of his hips is sharp and driven, and as Hannibal braces himself above Will, sweat shining on his skin, he ducks his head enough to mouth along Will's shoulder, up his throat, nipping at the shell of his ear, the lobe, the curve of his jaw. He's never idle as he _takes_ , breathless with desire for this man.

* * *

It's not in Will's nature or personality to be overly patient - to submit. He knows Jack uses him, but Will _likes_ helping. He wouldn't put up with half the shit if that hadn't been the case. Jack is a necessary evil. But Will wants to be in control when it concerns sex. Will wants to be taking, his hands to be directing. And it's not so much about having _power_ or being _better_ , no. It's not entirely an Alpha thing either, it's that he doesn't _trust_ others easily.

He shouldn't trust Hannibal, and yet here they are in Hannibal's bed, their necks stained in bloodied wounds and bonded. Jack wouldn't have expected him to go this far. Will hadn't thought of himself even capable of this. What else could Hannibal make him do? Because it's got be Hannibal's dark influence, that flicker catching your eye and you go despite knowing you fucking shouldn't. He's like the stupid character in a horror movie moving _toward_ the danger. Is he really this messed up? This broken and twisted to find solace within Hannibal? This _weak_ to want to hang his weary head down and let Hannibal whisper that it will be okay (and Will knows it won't, for how could it ever possibly be?).

 _Killer. Psychopath. Cannibal. Asshole. Omega._ These words streak through Will's mind, but they don't deter him like they should (like they once would have). Hannibal smells divine and Will wants to lose himself, for this moment out of time to stretch on, for this mistake to be elevated like the Ripper's crime scenes. If there was a God, Will would be okay with dying like this - with Hannibal. This tainted thing between them is an abomination and they should be struck down for it. (Surely he can do the right thing tomorrow...)

There's discomfort, but it's bearable. He knows how he must feel - tight, hot and gripping around Hannibal's cock. Will smells Hannibal leaking, slick likely dripping from his hole as Hannibal fights what his body thinks it needs. Fuck biology. Will wants to feel Hannibal like this, to be like this, in this viscerally _wrong_ and socially unacceptable way.

_'Every time you breathe, every time you move, every time you so much as think of me, you will feel it. Feel me.'_

Will groans despite himself. His hands smoothing out to simply stroke down Hannibal's back again. The first few thrusts aren't much. Hannibal is, once again, careful. Will doesn't actually mind because the motion and knowledge is a lot to take in. Hannibal's cock slides out a little to only slide back in. It's a strange fullness, the action smooth and controlled. Will doesn't comply immediately when Hannibal tells him to wrap his legs around his waist, but Will supposes it hardly matters now that Hannibal is being bossy. So, Will does listen to him, he processes that he can use his nails or bite, but all thought is gone when Hannibal's hips snap forward roughly.

Hannibal keeps his promise now. It's violent in a way that resonates with Will. It's not to hurt him, no, it's not to punish him, but to make him _feel._ Will's nails, once more, scratch. His erection has started to flag a little, but it doesn't matter as Hannibal relentlessly fucks him. Will's hands lift to bury in Hannibal's hair and he yanks Hannibal's head up enough so that their mouths meet.

Will kisses even though he knows he shouldn't. His tongue hungry to taste and his teeth to bite at Hannibal's lips. He doesn't hold back, although the kissing is a little difficult with his body being pounded into. It's messy and uncoordinated, but it's Hannibal - his mate - and it scratches an itch Will hadn't been aware that he'd had.

* * *

This moment will be imprinted upon them both like brands upon their flesh. Hannibal knows that the bloodied bite on his throat will never leave, will always stay as a blatant mark to ward off anyone else who might be interested in him. He knows what he's done by accepting Will's claim. He knows what he's gone through biologically, what he _will_ go through if this truly is a monumental deception.

A part of him wants to believe that Will wouldn't go _this_ far... but then, he hadn't believed that Will might kill for a trick. Yet Randall's body had still graced his table and, ultimately, his stomach, though it hadn't been clear at the time. For Hannibal has never struggled with himself like this before. He's never allowed another close enough _to_ deceive him, and the knowledge burns.

Yet he still knows that were Will to breathlessly tell him they could leave _tonight_ , even now, Hannibal would go with him. He'd forgive. He'd forget. It's likely that he'd never even mention Will's deception.

He knows it won't happen. For one reason or another - be it manipulation or a need to kill Jack Crawford - Will won't leave.

So Hannibal takes him. He thrusts hard and deep, feels the grip of Will's body around his cock so tightly that it almost hurts even him. He moves with a driven focus that is intended to leave his mark. For while _his_ throat will scar, there is no guarantee that Will's is going to. Hannibal intends to make it a certainty before the night is over, intends to leave his mark in any way he can. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he will take and take until they blur, until it's _them_ instead of Will and Hannibal separately.

His bites sharpen as he drives himself into Will's tight heat, feeling the pleasure and need pound like a separate heartbeat through his chest. It's more than just the bare sensation of flesh on his own, more than Will's desire to forgo a condom. It's connection and desperation and anger and need. It's lies and truths, and Hannibal can feel heightened emotion breaking through the dam, can feel the desperation and frustration, and it's so close to breaking free.

Then Will's hands bury in his hair and yank Hannibal's mouth away from his throat. The burn goes to his cock, makes him gasp in a quick breath. Then he feels the warmth of Will's lips against his own, feels the way Will's tongue immediately licks into his mouth, the way his teeth instantly nip and bite, and Hannibal makes a choked sound that he _really_ doesn't intend to.

He'd been attempting not to kiss, for it's something that he truly enjoys. It's connection, even violent, and somehow the slide of Will's lips over his own feels more intimate than the way Will's body is clenched around him. Hannibal freezes until he can't, and when he finally returns the kiss, it's with a hint of desperation that he hopes Will is going to mistake for arousal.

Hannibal's thrusts don't ease, but they do become more controlled as he kisses Will back, sucking at his tongue, chasing his taste, feeling the prickling sensation of affection all the way down his spine. He changes the angle, eases Will's hips up a little more, and when he thrusts again, it's slightly more tentative and searching, finding the angle that will feel _good_ despite everything else between them. As he moves, Hannibal breaks the kiss only to breathe but never moves away from it. He shifts his weight to his left arm, bracing himself above Will with it alone as he moves his right hand down between them.

He wraps his hand around Will's slightly-softer cock and sets about fixing it, stroking slow but firm as he locks the sensation away in his mind. He bites at Will's lips, at odds with the way his thrusts finally gentle, but Hannibal is careful not to turn this into something tender. He grinds his hips against Will's ass, shuddering at the pleasure it elicits, but searching for _Will's_ response more than his own.

Hannibal touches and learns him in this momentary pause, stroking his thumb under the head of Will's cock and making sure to be careful around the sensitive base with its slightly looser skin - something new to Hannibal, as he has not been intimate with an Alpha before.

"Tell me if it's too much," Hannibal breathes against Will's lips, focusing on a deep, rolling grind of his hips aimed for Will's pleasure more than his own.

* * *

It's one mistake after the other, isn't it? Since Hannibal's injection into Will's life, it has been a series of ill-advised decisions - _mistakes_. Will's never been one to run away from conflict nor does he wish to incite it like some Alphas do, but he's turned them onto this particular road and pushed... It's more than a nudge. He'd only suspected before, suspected that Hannibal had been into him like this - in _all_ ways. It can't be love, can it? Will doesn't know. (Does he want to know?)

But Hannibal had stood and loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He'd been willing to mate - to commit - and forgo the option of any other Alpha. Many would say that love had to be in the equation but Will struggles with that notion. Could a man like Hannibal Lecter - a man so foreign and above them all - _truly_ love? Love is just a word. An overused word at that. The Greeks had believed in different types of love and Will agrees.

Philia, a love between equals, an affectionate love between friends, without physical attraction - platonic. But they'd never been equals... Self-love. Ludus, that playful love during an early stage of a relationship. Mania. Pragma, a committed love. Storge, family love. Agape, unconditional love for the entire world (laughable to apply to Hannibal). And then Eros - primal, powerful - controlled by lust, pleasure and infatuation and the hallmark loss of control. The Greeks were right, it's not necessarily a good thing.

How can _this_ be a good thing? Kissing Hannibal, letting Hannibal - an _Omega_ \- fuck him. The bonding. The bond is the worst because it will last. Sex is sex. The bond...

Hannibal kisses back and Will drinks in his desperation. Will likes kissing. If people are kissing they aren't potentially saying stupid shit. They haven't spoken that much since starting all of this (thankfully), but Will can imagine the words Hannibal could utter. He doesn't want to, though.

So together they lose control in one another's bodies. There's the scrape of stubble that burns his skin, but he knows Hannibal will have it worse. Hannibal changes the angle and it has Will arching off the bed, his fingers tightening in Hannibal's hair as Hannibal's dick brushes deeper inside - just right and it has Will gasping sharply. And then Hannibal is moving, his hand reaching between them to wrap around his cock and Will is quickly hardening again.

"It's not... Not too much," Will grits out.

To prove his point, he purposely tries to meet Hannibal's thrust. His body is thrumming as Hannibal forces this pleasure on him - on them. Their skin is sweaty and each brush against his prostate has Will shaking and going in for another kiss. Mouths are swollen and wet and at this moment, Will's sure they're both losing control, drowning in this sin. The concept of _tomorrow_ and consequences steadily floats away like smoke. It's all replaced with skin and heat and intensity that's maddening in its rightness.

It almost surprises him that he feels his knot begin to form. Will hadn't thought it would be possible for him to come like _this._ But as usual, Hannibal is the one to prove him wrong.

* * *

There is nothing tender about this, physically. Hannibal is careful not to fall into that trap, regardless of how badly he wants to. It's more than his instincts; it is the culmination of everything that he and Will have been through. Hannibal has never so much as entertained the idea of finding a mate, much less of offering his throat up for _anyone's_ teeth.

Yet all it had taken had been Will's offer for him to cave. Hannibal knows what it means, knows what he _wants_ , knows that it's within his grasp... and tomorrow is a looming threat on the horizon that he wishes he could merely turn away from. So for now, buried deep in the warmth and thrilling heat of Will's body, he does.

Instead of dwelling on what _could_ happen tomorrow evening, Hannibal throws himself into the physicality of _this_ moment. He loses himself in the slide of Will's lips against his, in the soft, breathless exclamations of pleasure between them. His hand remains wrapped around Will's cock as Hannibal grinds deeply into him, and the satisfaction that he feels when he notices Will harden again in his palm is thrilling.

It urges him on, makes him quicken his pace, allows him the freedom to enjoy this whirlwind of pleasure and emotion and closeness that Hannibal has never truly allowed himself before. He thinks briefly on what Will might think if he knew, but the notion is dismissed as quickly as it had come. Hannibal won't complicate this, not when he _wants_ so completely.

He urges Will along with low, breathless groans, with soft murmurs of encouragement that lose their status as communication when Hannibal's voice quiets to a whisper and the phrases lose coherency. All there is is the sensation of Will arching under him, the thrill of his surprise at how _good_ this can feel with someone who knows what he's doing. Hannibal delights in it, trading kisses and bites and locking away every reaction that he's able to draw from Will. He shudders at the feel of Will's body clenching around him and hisses out between his teeth when Will's fingers grip tight in his hair.

Hannibal's control begins to falter then, for every time that thoughts begin to creep in, Will's desperate kisses chase them away again. His world narrows down to nothing but this. All there is, is the tightness of Will's body, the wet slap of skin, the muffled moans and whispers of pleasure between them as Hannibal takes and Will gives and they both descend further into this wild desperation that will surely consume them both.

Hannibal feels the swelling under his hand before Will seems to notice, and it takes very little time for Hannibal to adjust the speed and strength of his strokes to accommodate Will's growing knot. The knowledge that Will is as close as he must be tears through him viciously and Hannibal draws back from the kiss to look down at Will.

He feels the tremble of desperation all through Will's body, feels the need, and Hannibal can feel how close _he_ is, and yet there is something very intentional in the way he waits for the pinch of desperation on Will's brow before he slides his hand down low. Hannibal leans in then, mouthing at the bite mark he'd left on Will's skin.

"So close, aren't you?" Hannibal murmurs against Will's throat. His voice isn't teasing; he sounds as wrecked as Will does. "But you need that extra push. Breathe deep for me, Will. It will feel even better. Trust me; let me give this to you."

There's so much more lying in wait beneath Hannibal's words. _Trust me_ , indeed. But as fervently as he wishes to snarl the words, he doesn't. Instead he slides his hand down over Will's knot, giving it a small, sympathetic squeeze, then moves down to the base of it and suddenly squeezes harder, simulating the act of knotting _in_ someone as Hannibal grinds in deep. And no sooner has he felt the first pulse of pleasure shoot through Will's body then Hannibal rumbles a low, desperate growl and his teeth align with the earlier bite on Will's throat. He bites again, deep, hard enough to hopefully _force_ the wound to scar.

He wants Will to carry more than mere memories of this moment. He wants to be a stain on this man's mind, on his body, his emotions, to be etched so deeply that even death will struggle to tear them apart.

* * *

Will could put a stop to this. Hannibal is not a rapist. Will could call this off, and he's pretty sure Hannibal would cease and pull out. There'd be no guilt tactics or shaming. And it'd be awkward but Will would fumble on his clothing and what...? Chalk it up to the wine? He'd only had a glass. He has no good excuse for his behavior. Will wants to justify his behavior as doing what's necessary to fool Hannibal, but had Hannibal _required_ the extra convincing? Will can't be certain. The offer to run away this evening had caught him off guard. Will thinks it had been genuine and he doesn't know exactly what had spawned it.

Yes, he could stop - _they_ could stop, but Will doesn't want this to stop. Hannibal's cock relentlessly pushes into him in a way that he knows will have him aching tomorrow. Will's dick fills out steadily, Hannibal's encouraging hand and words doing their job effortlessly. It's a blur of sensation, kissing and teeth accompanying the fucking, with the occasional addition of insistent brushes to his prostate.

The question Hannibal asks doesn't need an answer. Hannibal's hand has surely felt the emergence of his knot, and Will feels the telltale antsy desire to be deep inside a partner, their body tight and grasping around it. He barely hears Hannibal's words - something about an extra push and breathing deep, something about trust and Hannibal _giving_ \--

And Will doesn't know what to say or do. A spike of helplessness jolts through because he can't exactly _do_ anything other than lay beneath Hannibal and take it. But Hannibal seems to know what to do - mercifully? Thankfully? Hannibal's hand slides lower, over his knot and then underneath it as a few fingers squeeze noticeably harder to simulate the feeling of knotting _inside_ someone. This is how Will masturbates, but for an incredulous second Will is resistant that he _could_ come like this, Hannibal grinding in deep - fucking him.

But oh, he _can_ and _does._ Pleasure scorches through Will as his eyes squeeze tightly shut and yes, there's another bite, Hannibal's teeth digging in at the previous bonding site. It's a sharpness that only seems to complement the staggering wash of bliss over his body. Will shakes and gasps, come spurting out between them, likely landing on Hannibal in the process.

Grasping tightly at Hannibal's hair, he pushes Hannibal's mouth further down - encouraging the bite. The pain throbbing in his neck almost helps ground Will as his body wars between the strange dual sensation of being so full and getting fucked with the familiar tightness of Hannibal's fingers around the base of his knot.

His climax might be tinged in a mild confusion, but it's still staggering in pleasure. Will's hips give aborted thrusts of their own, enjoying the resistance of Hannibal's fingers against his knot as it swells further. He can still smell Hannibal's slick and his natural scent and it only fuels his orgasm. Will is loud and responsive, no longer concerned about trying to hold anything back.

"Christ, Hannibal, _fuck_ ," Will hisses and his hands let go of Hannibal's head so he can thrash. His arms jerk before falling back on the bed. He grips at the sheets again as pleasure ravages him.

His vision is dark from his eyes being closed, but the darkness feels warm and safe instead of ominous and frightening.

* * *

Perhaps Hannibal has never slept with another Alpha before - in this way or in the way many would argue that biology has intended - but he _had_ been a physician. He understands the anatomy of a knot, understands levels of sexual dysfunction and how to treat them. More importantly, he knows how to make sex feel _good_. He knows what Will needs in order to reach a satisfying orgasm and while he _could_ deny him, Hannibal doesn't want to.

He wants Will to remember this. He wants to bask in his scent, in his cries, wants to remember the look of incredulous pleasure on his face the moment that Hannibal grips the base of his cock and simulates the act of knotting. And as his teeth sink once more into Will's throat and he feels the pulse of sensation against his palm, Hannibal ensures that his hips are never still.

He grinds deep; he doesn't thrust. Instead he basks in the momentary resistance in Will's body, feeling the tremble of effort, the last instinctual barrier being torn down violently as Will fights against coming like this. Then, when Will finally allows himself, when the mix of pain and pleasure becomes too much to bear, Hannibal feels Will clench down around his cock in the quick convulsions of a strong orgasm and Hannibal's resulting cry is muffled against Will's throat.

It is not a timid endeavor. Will isn't passive with his pleasure. His whole body is involved, from the way he gasps and writhes against the bed, to the tight, painful grip he has in Hannibal's hair, forcing his teeth harder against Will's neck and ensuring that the bite will keep.

It's a bastardization of instincts - the instinct to bite an Omega at the moment of orgasm - and Hannibal delights in the sensation of Will's skin parting under his teeth and staining his lips a deep red once more. He feels Will's knot swell, feels the hot spurt of come against his skin (marking him with his scent). Yet when Will loses his control in the throes of his pleasure, when his hips begin to thrust against Hannibal's hand (and then back against his cock) and Will's control over his filter vanishes, Hannibal cannot help the flare of pleasure he feels.

It's too much; all it takes is that one cry of his name on Will's lips for Hannibal's control to slip. His need to come outweighs his need to observe Will doing the same, and so as Will's muscles twitch and clench around him, Hannibal groans deep and desperate against his throat and his hips snap forward again.

Hannibal abandons the slow grind of his hips in favor of driving once more into Will's body, thrusting hard, chasing his own pleasure as Will basks in it. Like this, with blood on his tongue and Will wild and writhing under him, Hannibal can no longer help himself. He thrusts and presses Will down, caging him in with his body, and there's a very real growl in Hannibal's chest as he holds tight to Will's throat and thrusts twice more before his own pleasure crashes down upon him.

Hannibal feels the rush of pleasure curl through him, coupled with the sudden heat of a rush of his slick despite his denial of that side of himself. It doesn't make the bliss any less intense as he buries himself deep inside Will's body, though, doesn't quiet the snarl on his lips (though Will's blood does muffle it slightly). Hannibal trembles as he comes, feeling each pulse of pleasure deeply and viscerally as he shoots thick and hot into Will's body, staking his own claim as he keeps his hand wrapped around Will's cock, keeping his knot formed as if attempting to stake a claim of a different kind.

It is as violent as it is intimate, as chaotic as it is soothing. Hannibal isn't surprised. Given who they are and what they've done, anything less would feel disingenuous. Yet even as he trembles in his pleasure, emotion winds through him. Hannibal holds onto Will tightly with his free arm, fingers burying in his hair, desperate in a different way. He aches for this - for more of it - for more than just _this_.

He wants to see Will spread out beneath him against soft, white sheets under the Paris sun. He wants to coax the mark on Will's throat into a scar over the next few weeks, to make it as deep and lurid as his own will be. He wants to feel this, to have this, to have _Will_.

Tomorrow will herald Will's answer. Tomorrow, he'll know. Tomorrow everything is going to change, in one way or another.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a passion they've never had to work for, never had to practice to perfect, because it seems intrinsic to them somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Ron from HP, "So... you're going to suffer but you're going to be happy about it" sums up this chapter. ♥ Enjoy. We sure did. At least one more chapter is in the works for this 'verse.
> 
> Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com)

Will does ache when he leaves Hannibal's. His throat is a mess, too. It's more than a little awkward to have to endure a long car ride back to Wolf Trap. Hannibal, of course, had offered that he could stay the night. Will had said it wasn't possible due to his dogs. It's the truth, but it feels hollow even now. He'd cleaned up with a soft towel passed to him. He'd opted to not take a shower. He'd redressed and left with a promise to see Hannibal the next evening.

He carries more than just Hannibal's scent with him. There are bruises and bitemarks. The bond mark. His body feels like a live wire. Will can't fully process what he's done let alone what _they've_ done. Each second that passes brings him closer to _tomorrow_. It feels like D-day for them.

He drinks far too much but it's fucking necessary in order to fall asleep. (Hannibal's scent is all around of him... he should have showered when he got home.)

Will showers in the morning and scrubs himself clean. Even so, he feels like there are lingering traces of Hannibal. It feels futile in the end. Even if the scent is diminished, every move he makes, Will feels him along sore skin and aching muscles.

*******

It seems like Jack has seen fit to leave before him. Their plan is already going to shit. Go figure. Will can't even say he's all that surprised that Jack had deemed to leave him out of the loop -- to not trust him.

She tells him that they've issued a warrant for his arrest. For acting as an accessory to entrapment. Technically not untrue.

The dogs bark, alerting him to the approach of FBI vehicles, likely ones coming to enact the law.

"And for the murder of Randall Tier," Alana says.

Also, not untrue.

"They're going to arrest Jack as well," she adds on even though Will had assumed as much.

"Will?"

"Goodbye, Alana."

He ends the call. Will grabs his firearm and jacket before sneaking out. There's a pounding drum in his head, a warning flaring that Hannibal is in danger. Curled up against his shed, Will isn't even thinking as he selects the number he wants to call. His hands do what's necessary.

Hannibal answers on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"They know," is all Will says.

He hopes Hannibal understands, he hopes Hannibal gets the hell out of Dodge. Now Will knows undoubtedly that he doesn't want Hannibal dead. He speeds the entire way, nerves twisting and the gun feeling like a heavy weight. The Heaven's cry, an unforgiving rain drenching everything and seeking to remind him of Hannibal's smell.

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been Alana lying there broken outside, glass around her. Will does what he can, but it's not much. He's soaked as he enters the eerily calm house, gun raised.

There's blood and chaos. Will has the horrible realization that this is a crime scene he won't be asked to recreate. He's living it.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Abigail isn't dead. She stands there alive and afraid. Even though he doesn't want to see, he does. It all makes sense in a perfectly heart-wrenching way.

Hannibal hadn't understood, hadn't left... Will doesn't have time to explain because Hannibal is here now, bloody and wrathful. There's a horrible relief that comes with Hannibal being _alive,_ but there is also fear because Will can sense the stink of bitter hurt and betrayal emanating from Hannibal -- his mate. Will undoubtedly looks worse off - at least on his neck - but Will can still see his mark on Hannibal.

He doesn't lift his gun. He trusts Hannibal when he comes in close.

He shouldn't have. The pain is excruciating, but it's not as painful as when Will figures out what Hannibal is going to do _next_.

He begs, but it doesn't matter.

They all bleed out and Hannibal's footsteps echo as he retreats and leaves them. At this point, they're merely discarded carnage.

* * *

_To the truth and all its consequences, indeed..._

Bitterness burns along Hannibal's mind but he respectfully says nothing when Will leaves him that night. Will's logic is sound, and regardless of how badly Hannibal wants to ask him to stay, he doesn't. He lets Will leave, even packs him up the rest of his dinner for the drive home. He doesn't kiss him at the door, though he wants to, and Hannibal watches Will in silence as he leaves.

Hannibal cleans. He scrubs down the tables, and he prepares one way or another. Most of the evidence in his home has been taken care of, and as he works quietly into the early morning, Hannibal throws himself into it, Will's touch and taste a phantom presence on the back of his mind. Abigail wanders downstairs after some time and Hannibal knows she'd heard, but there's no awkwardness in her eyes. Instead she seeks out his throat and the look in her eyes brightens when she sees the mark, but she knows better than to ask him what it means.

Not even Hannibal knows. Not now. He _hopes_... But in the back of his mind, he knows just the same. Yet he will give Will this chance. He won't run. He won't hide away. He'll stay and face the truth in any way it arises.

*******

Will's call tears through him like a blade. He'd known, in his heart of hearts, that this had been a lie but it burns through him still. The pain of betrayal flares and Hannibal feels the animal part of his instincts cry out, gnawing, lashing, and hurt. It doesn't mean that he doesn't still heed Will's warning, but it also doesn't mean that he runs. Instead he prepares, and when Jack shows up, when Hannibal feels the stench of Alpha influence upon the air that doesn't belong to Will, instead of cowering or hiding back as some Omegas might, he doesn't hesitate.

He throws his knife and the blade pierces sharply into Jack's hand, and then Hannibal is on him. Jack is stronger than he is, but Hannibal is quicker and smarter and he uses Jack's pain and his own power to his advantage. Hannibal's back crashes into wall and counter as he's thrown against them, but he knows his home. He knows his kitchen. He grabs anything within reach to daze Jack. He handles each blow and gives them back in return, the scent of Jack's blood thick upon the air as they attack one another. Hannibal disarms the knife Jack brandishes at him with an apron and a well-aimed kick, sending it scattering. Then he grabs a knife and they begin again.

Jack's downfall is his pride. His certainty that his strength is all he needs. Hannibal takes blow after blow, and while he doesn't _expect_ the tie that Jack throws around his throat in the end, he doesn't panic. Hannibal will wear the bruises for some time from Jack's attempt to choke him out, but when he drives the glass through Jack's neck and drinks in Jack's shock, it is almost enough to slake his rage. Almost.

The tides turn then, from prey to predator, and as Hannibal gathers himself up and throws himself viciously against the door that Jack hides himself behind, the only thing that saves Jack's life - in that moment - is Alana.

He feels her gaze fall upon his throat - the one thing that Jack had missed - and when she threatens him and chooses to be _brave_ instead of blind, there is hurt in her own eyes. Yet it is nothing compared to the pain she undoubtedly feels when Abigail shoves her through the second-story window and her spine breaks like glass.

Abigail is horrified but Hannibal, covered with blood and with rage _pounding_ in his veins, soothes her.

He has no plans on what to do until he sees Will, the shock in his posture when he sees Abigail, the tremble in his muscles. Hannibal is quiet, furious and bitter and nearly choking with the hurt of this betrayal. Not just everything that Will had done, but in coming _here_ , in forcing Hannibal's hand, in not leaving with him the night before, in _not_ choosing him. Yet everything in Hannibal's chest threatens to twist and unwind when Will turns to him.

Hannibal takes note of small details as the seconds pass. He notes the steady drip of water from Will's sodden bangs to the floor, notes how small he looks in the kitchen, the confusion in his eyes, the pinch on his brow that Hannibal had basked in so fully the night before. He touches Will's cheek, and he knows that he needs to kill him, knows what the _smart_ thing to do is.

But he can't. Instead he does something even worse than killing him. He rends Will immobile, gives him a _chance_ , but when Will reminds him of how completely that they have changed one another, when he reminds Hannibal about what this will _mean_ for him, as a man, as an Omega, Hannibal takes everything else away from him.

He takes away Will's hopes and dreams. He takes away the shadow of possibilities. He takes away mornings sitting on a dock or at a lake with Abigail by his side, a fishing pole in his hands, and the Parisian sun hot overhead.

Hannibal's instincts _scream_ as he leaves them, as he leaves his mate and surrogate child behind - one bleeding, one dying. It is the ultimate affront against nature, and Hannibal feels it down to his core. He feels the panic, feels the frantic need to heal, to help, to _save_ , for an Omega daring to hurt their mate is agonizing enough, but to _kill their child?_ Everything in him screams to go back.

He doesn't. Instead, he steps outside into the pouring rain, over Alana's broken body, and he walks.

Hannibal Lecter has never been a slave to his instincts.

*******

Bedelia doesn't ask questions beyond what she must. She must sense the danger rolling off of him in waves, and while her eyes _do_ linger on the bite mark on Hannibal's throat, she doesn't truly _understand_ what it means. There is a curious would-be-sympathy in her eyes, for she knows who has bitten him, but she assumes him as much an Alpha as the rest of the world does. A 'false bite' will give an Alpha no symptoms. It is symbolic at best. She doesn't think anything of it beyond the knowledge of what Hannibal has lost on a surface level.

Yet even she looks somewhat surprise when Hannibal asks her to come with him. She looks even more surprised when she agrees.

There's a hollow bitterness in his chest that does not vanish even as they leave together, even as the two of them assume identifies that are not their own. Hannibal sits on the plane hours later with Bedelia at his side, and as he sips at his champagne - his collar high enough to hide the bite upon his throat - Will is still on his mind.

The ache will not fade. Hannibal won't get that luxury. Every moment of every day that he knows he'd left his mate near-dead will burn and claw at his senses. He won't get a reprieve from the pain, from the screech of his instincts. He'd known that the moment he'd allowed Will to bite him.

 _'You were supposed to leave_.'

 _No_ , Hannibal thinks, closing his eyes as the pit deep in his stomach grows fangs, _**we** were supposed to._

* * *

Nurses look at him with a pity that Will can't stand. Well, he apparently _can_ because he holds his tongue and doesn't snap at them, but only just. It wouldn't help. It wouldn't change a goddamn thing. He doesn't need their sympathy and judgment, he has his own self-loathing to contend with. Regret and anger burn through him.

Abigail had been a divine punishment from a wrathful God. If only Will had gone away that evening with Hannibal. If he'd left that note and fled with Hannibal...

If only this, if only that...

During his recovery, whenever able, he locks himself away in his mind. Will goes fishing and imagines conversations with Abigail. Sometimes he even pretends she's alive, visiting him with another bandage around her throat, another scar from a father. He doesn't share any of this with the grief counselor that tries to get him to open up and talk. It's easier to shut down and be labeled as a resistant Alpha and left alone.

He's compliant with the FBI. He goes along with the official narrative. Jack makes a point to state that Hannibal had attacked Will - assaulted him - and that's where the bite marks have come from. Jack doesn't want his prized show dog to have been that weak to succumb to being bitten, no matter the reasoning.

Jack. Alana. Him. They've all been broken by Hannibal. By an Omega that had proved himself a feral and violent force to contend with. Hannibal's secret is out now. Perhaps it's petty, but Will wants to cut back on some of his lies. No one knows they've bonded, but Jack and Alana suspect. Neither of them come out and _ask,_ however.

Sometimes when Will closes his eyes, he can't help but remember the moment before Hannibal's violence. Hannibal had been tender -- tender, not careful. Hannibal had cupped his face like a lover, even -- like his mate. Will had his fucking gun in hand and he'd let Hannibal draw him in closer. And then Hannibal had shown him what he'd thought of Will's apparent betrayal.

Abigail had been caught in the crossfire. Unfair. Hideously unfair. If only they'd talked. Talked about shit that had mattered, that is.

Will remembers his magnificent beast giving out, the ravenstag bringing forth a tidal wave of blood. He remembers drowning.

But unlike Abigail, he hadn't died. He'd had a second chance at life. Hannibal had deigned to cut him just right, to ensure that he lived while Abigail... Abigail hadn't been offered a third chance.

He returns to a home that no longer feels like a home. His dogs offer him very little comfort. Will tinkers with motors. He lies low. He feels lost at sea now. Incomplete.

*******

Severe, beautiful and timeless. Those are the words that Hannibal had tacked onto the Norman Chapel in Palermo, Italy. There's a reason Will has remembered that, that he'd chosen to revisit such a memory.

One day he simply wakes up and decides that he's done idling. He's done fixing motors and hiding. He gets on a boat and leaves his life behind. It's easier than he thought it would be. Abigail is a comfortable companion. Will doesn't know what that says about him.

A few days after he arrives, Will's not entirely surprised that there's a crime scene at the Capella Palatina. He can smell Hannibal, after all. Hannibal can smell him.

Will goes through the motions with local police and Pazzi.

"--Or is the body here because of Will Graham?"

Of course, Will turns the question around. Pazzi talks about making connections, how, at that moment, it's his keenest pleasure. The epiphany of _knowing_. Will can relate.

They both know who murdered that man. And now Will has another name for Hannibal - Il Mostro - the Monster of Florence. Quite fitting. Hannibal probably liked it better than the Chesapeake Ripper. When the black and white image of a Hannibal twenty-years prior is displayed for him, Will's eyes narrow. It's a Hannibal he's never known.

Hannibal looks unrepentant, like a cool, stubborn stream refusing to be stopped despite the changing landscape, despite the obstacles. Pazzi speaks of Hannibal transfixed by the Botticelli, sketching it day after day and Will can see the image so clearly in his mind. Hannibal dressed well but not colorfully like he had later on his life. Hannibal, alone and attempting to carve out his path by any means necessary.

When he's handed the folder, Will knows he's going to look. How could he not? The church is cleared out, the candles lit. The mood is just right.

The crime scene photo depicts art of another kind -- a body fashioned into a heart and arranged specifically over that single reminder of mortality graven on the floor. Will can't resist closing his eyes and imagining. It's what he's good at, right?

It's grotesque but it shows dedication. Hannibal's hands had created a topiary.

"A valentine written on a broken man," Will surmises after his hand has reached out to touch it.

His mind seeks to take it a step further, seeks to pervert it further as the body bends itself back and hooves grow. Antlers grow. The creature advances on him--

Abigail's voice rescues him. He's left panting and gasping on the stairs. The resulting conversation with her is not pleasant, but it's necessary. It's wound debridement.

Then it's her throat sliced open again as she bleeds out, no sounds uttered. No shock.

And Will is left alone. Will scents Hannibal, but he doesn't even glance around. He knows it's not the right time. When Pazzi comes back to bother him, Will humors him. Prayers. God. Sentimental drivel. Catching Hannibal Lecter when Pazzi _should_ just get the fuck out.

The catacombs call to him. A howling wind, blood seeping along the floor. Will tries to warn the man, but Pazzi is a stubborn fool and Will knows he's going to be right -- that Pazzi will die if he doesn’t let Il Mostro go.

He descends into the candlelit bowels. The dead are silent. They're not Abigail, they're not past victims. Hannibal's scent only grows stronger as Will wanders.

Will's not worried as Pazzi turns around, gun raised on him. Will's only concern is finding his mate. It's a single-minded focus, a driving urge now. Pazzi tries to find common ground with him, but Will isn't having it. He's not here to unburden.

"You are already dead, aren't you?"

Will merely says goodnight as he backs away into the shadows. He's not here to help Pazzi. He's here to help himself.

Will may have sharp senses, but Hannibal is still the ultimate predator. Hannibal has years of sneaking around, of lurking in the shadows undetected.

"Hannibal..." Will pauses at a juncture. He knows Hannibal is listening. Something just slides into place and _clicks_. "I forgive you."

* * *

Bedelia soon learns of the mistake she's made by accompanying Hannibal on the trip. Undoubtedly her desire had been to study him, to observe him from up close, her fascination warring with her common sense. To have gotten into his head, to have enjoyed a front row seat to his perceived madness or his masterful skill is a chance she can't pass up. Yet as the months pass in Europe, as she sees the monster she's leashed herself to voluntarily, Hannibal watches the thin thread of her control begin to fray.

For he is not himself. He looks like himself. He acts like himself on the surface. He mingles with the social elite, he plays the game, but he is no longer content to interject himself within the farce. He kills because his instincts never quiet. He kills their assumed identities and there is no delicate fanfare behind it as there once would have been, and Hannibal silently watches Bedelia's doubts climb higher. In a way, he encourages them.

Hannibal's mind is a swirling agony. Much as he aches to be above his instincts, there are parts of them that he cannot escape. An Omega daring to injure a mate is bad enough. Such a stain on the mind will linger unless the bond is medically broken by chemical and surgical means. Yet to kill a child... To kill _their_ child... There is no reprieve from that. Abigail had not been his by blood; that option had never been in Hannibal's cards, but many male Omegas adopt surrogates and their instincts are just as fierce as they would be for biological children.

While he had not intended it, while he had intended her a gift for Will, Abigail had quietly encroached upon him with the same ferocity that Mischa had all those years ago. Hannibal is a slave to his instincts as the months crawl on, his grief sharpening his tongue and his blades and making him less careful.

A waitress makes a stray comment to him as he and Bedelia dine together and Hannibal rips her throat out later that evening. There is no beauty or art. It's pure rage. He doesn't elevate her; he shoves her body into the river to bloat and swell with maggots and blowflies before it is undoubtedly found.

Through it all, he can sense Bedelia's alarm, though she is not foolish enough to speak out against him.

Hannibal's only solace is the morning he wakes up to a _TattleCrime_ article that showcases Will in a hospital bed. There is a greed in the way he reads, in the way he desperately locks away the fact that Will Graham has _survived_ him. It doesn't truly quiet his instincts. It doesn't make them less likely to jolt him awake in unfathomable emotional agony in the middle of the night, but it calms them more in the waking hours. Knowing that Will is alive is a relief, but feeling his absence, feeling Bedelia by his side instead of the man he had chosen... the pain of it makes him reckless.

Bedelia attempts to take steps to save her own life, for she knows that packing and running would be a death sentence. Perhaps she doesn't suspect Hannibal's status (or perhaps she does by now) but she begins to paint herself as lesser. She asks for help in undressing. She asks him to wash her hair, and despite how blatant a farce it is, it helps on a surface level that Hannibal finds infuriating.

Were he able to cull his instincts, he would. They do nothing but serve as a barrier to the rest of his life. Yet he cannot deny that there is some measure of comfort to be found in caring for Bedelia, even if it is nothing more than a stopgap. This fix is temporary and they both know it. No finery, no lavish dinners or parties in which Hannibal is allowed to show off blatantly for the rest of high society can fix that.

*******

Dimmond is a pathetic find, and even Hannibal knows it, but given the way that his instincts have been screaming at him since his arrival in Europe - for more than one reason - Hannibal cannot help the surface fascination. For one split second, he believes that Dimmond is actually Will when he sees him from the back, but the differences are instantly apparent. For one, his scent is alien and unpleasant, though Hannibal _knows_ that he enjoys the lightly-spiced cologne that Dimmond wears.

His instincts damn him again, of course, barring Hannibal's enjoyment of _any_ other person. The bitterness is sharp, particularly when Dimmond turns to face him and Hannibal sees features that he once would have found attractive enough to pursue. Yet in that moment, as he breathes in the scent, his stomach turns and his skin prickles with displeasure. Dimmond is too thin, his accent wrong, his stubble too long.

He's not Will, and that Hannibal's bond is adamantly hissing at him that this is _wrong_ is nothing short of infuriating.

It's more than the loss of Will and Abigail. It's the stress. It's the adjustment and the fact that while Hannibal _has_ found suppressants in Europe, the brand is not the same. They're off-brand and secret, and they've been playing havoc with his body the way the brand back in America had when he'd first started to take them. Yet despite the restlessness and phantom sensations on his skin, despite being slightly more volatile, they still work. He still takes them. And it means that as Dimmond steps in close to flirt, he smells nothing awry.

Hannibal's collar is high enough to hide the bite mark that has healed into a bright, clear scar upon his throat. Dimmond suspects nothing, and Hannibal forces himself to enjoy the banter if nothing else.

*******

The scent hits him out of the blue one morning, cedar and spice and citrus. It's a long way away, so faint that he almost can't scent it properly, but the way his instincts immediately quiet in shock before clamoring to be heard confirms it for Hannibal before he's made up his mind. _Will_.

Impulse and instinct make him ache to go, to follow the scent, to _find_ him, but bitterness and anger and pride stay Hannibal's hand. It has been nearly a year since their violent parting, and there is much water trapped under the bridge between them both. Yet Hannibal cannot claim that he doesn't wish to go, that he doesn't ache to follow Will's scent, to see him again, to immerse himself once more in a world he shouldn't.

A few days later, when Dimmond approaches him _again_ after he'd given his lecture as _Dr. Fell_ , the flare of danger and interest is sharp. Once, Hannibal thinks, he would have pursued this man, would have sunk questing fingers into his mind to seek out what could make a man like Dimmond _not_ turn him in. Yet his thoughts are scattered like dead leaves on a strong breeze, wild and chaotic and unable to detach from the underlying scent in the back of his mind.

He still takes Dimmond back without a clear plan in mind. Part of him wants to force himself to find his raking features attractive, to find his mind fascinating, but once they're at the table, once Dimmond's charm washes over both Hannibal and Bedelia, the rage crests into a seething restlessness.

Hannibal's skin feels hot, as it has for a few days now, and his mind feels somewhat clouded. Stress, anger, bitterness... he doesn't care which is responsible for his actions. All he knows is that seeing this _imposter_ sit where Will should have been, to smell his scent instead of the cedar he aches for, is the final straw.

Bedelia claims to 'observe' and Hannibal thinks about killing her as well, but Bedelia is not his focus. Something else is at play now.

*******

Seeing Will again is like staring at an eclipse. His scent is everywhere, thick and heady and Hannibal aches to go to him, to tear Will's collar open to see if his bite had scarred, to lift his shirt and rake his nails over the grin he'd left carved into Will's abdomen.

He doesn't. Instead he stands quietly, his pulse quick as he watches Will gaze upon his message, watches him reach out to touch a farce of a man, twisted into Hannibal's own meaning. He hears Will's voice at a distance but the sound of it sends an aching adrenaline rushing through his system. The words register - the knowledge that Will _understands_ is sweet, but that he is speaking to a specter of a woman long dead is not. It doesn't make Hannibal wish to go to him any less. It's a physical struggle to remain where he is, but ultimately, as always, Hannibal is not a slave to his instincts.

Will had chosen a long while ago, and there is no proof that he isn't bait once more. That Hannibal is even here is risk enough. Though his instincts ache, though his skin feels hot and his mind remains abuzz with an aching desire to _go_ to Will, Hannibal doesn't. Instead he drinks in his fill, he watches, and then he turns, going down to the cool darkness of the catacombs.

Hannibal honestly does consider killing Pazzi when the man is foolish enough to search, but Hannibal stays his hand for one reason alone: Will. Reckless as it is, hopeless as it feels, a part of him argues that he still knows this man. So when he is proven right, when Pazzi leaves and Hannibal hears him walking _out_ of the catacombs, the scent that takes his place makes Hannibal swallow.

He honestly has no plans on what to do. Then he hears Will's voice form his name, and he hears the words that follow - _I forgive you_ \- and something hot and terrible wrenches so sharply in his chest that Hannibal believes a lesser man might have been brought to his knees. The pain that lances through him forces a small breath from his throat, something faintly audible, but he already knows it's enough. Perhaps it is only Hannibal who is so affected, but he doubts it. If Will is here, Will can scent him. Will has heard him.

" _Do_ you?" Hannibal asks, quiet. He doesn't step out, doesn't reveal himself, but he knows Will is going to follow the sound of his voice. This conversation is one that Hannibal does not wish to be disturbed; he won't walk closer to the doorway out of the catacombs.

"Or has dear Jack Crawford once more baited his hook appropriately?"

* * *

Sandalwood and petrichor. The complementary scents hit Will's nostrils and only harden his resolve. He's not leaving. He's not running away. In this most holy place, they, themselves, are unholy. Will hadn't been lying when he'd admitted to being curious as to what he'd do when finding Hannibal -- he is.

He has no gun this time, no discernible weapon other than himself, other than his hands (but they've both come to learn that words and action - _inaction_ \- can hurt more than a bullet or blade ever could). The scar stretched across his abdomen feels uncomfortable and tight. The bite mark on his neck burns. Will remembers what it's like to be attacked and abandoned -- attacked and abandoned by his mate, by _Hannibal_. He won't go through that again. (Honestly, he doesn't think he can survive it again and while the knowledge offends him, it can't be helped.)

_I forgive you._

Words spoken, Will waits. He strains to hear or smell, to discover where Hannibal is lurking in these particular shadows. He knows Hannibal has heard him. The awareness rests heavy on him -- it won't be dismissed. _He_ won't be dismissed.

Then Hannibal speaks and his words feel like ice -- cold and potentially dangerous, like crystal spikes hanging from eaves waiting to break and pierce. Will doesn't reply. He reacts. He turns in the direction and he strides with purpose. He allows his instincts to reign, he sniffs and locks onto the familiar scent -- the single most alluring fragrance from the single most disastrous man to have ever entered Will's life. He winds through the twists of the catacombs and he feels Hannibal before he sees him. As Will takes a corner, he finds Hannibal there.

Hannibal, with his hair a little longer, free and wild and wearing a black leather jacket of all things. A coat for riding a motorcycle? It doesn't matter. Will licks his lips and he lunges at Hannibal, his hands coming to claw against the leather and hold tightly as he pushes him against the wall and pins him there. Will nuzzles at the scar that's hidden underneath Hannibal's collar -- he knows exactly where it is.

It's a relief. An all-encompassing relief that hits him hard, like drowning and then breaking through the water's tension, the first breath.

"I've missed you," is what Will says.

* * *

Hannibal closes his eyes. He doesn't need to open them. In this maze of catacombs and darkness, he knows precisely where Will is, and the knowledge is both comfort and damnation in one. Hannibal feels the familiar rage, the prickling of agony and betrayal, and he knows that he has not truly forgotten Will's actions.

Forgiven him? Yes. As much as Hannibal can. He understands Will's actions. He understands _why_ he'd done what he had. But that doesn't mean that the memory doesn't tear through him with poisoned claws. He hasn't forgotten because he can't; the betrayal of one's mate is a visceral thing, and it is something that now they both share. An eye for an eye. A trap for a daughter.

He hears Will's footsteps as he speaks and with each step, Will's natural scent grows stronger. Hannibal breathes it in deeply and silently resents himself for this weakness. The urge to go to him - to meet him halfway - is strong, but he remains exactly where he is. For while Hannibal now knows what eight months without Will's presence in his life feels like - how lonely it is, how infuriating, how worthless... - there is no indication whether they will survive this encounter.

Hannibal still doesn't move, doesn't go. Instead he remains, and when he feels Will but a few feet away, Hannibal opens his eyes and turns just enough to look at the corner he will turn.

Hannibal had seen him in front of his offering - the only tableau that Hannibal had built in nearly a year - but when Will suddenly strides out in front of him, close and warm and _real_ , Hannibal's bitterness does not stop him from drinking in the sight of him. Will's hair is longer, his cheeks slightly sharper, his posture taller, more purposeful. Heat burns viciously through Hannibal's chest, the rage of betrayal and the aching desire to _forget_. For he would. Were he able, he would forget Will's transgressions in a moment, would start anew, for even months later, Hannibal _misses_ him.

His breath catches, the only audible reaction to the aching sight of Will. Then, before he can so much as draw breath, Will is moving quick. His hands tear at Hannibal's jacket, gripping and holding, and instinct _should_ make Hannibal fight against being shoved back, but his arms remain at his sides. He stumbles, his back striking the surface behind him.

Will could go for his throat. He could have a knife. He could be full of a righteous fury - Jack's man once again. Yet Hannibal doesn't react. He doesn't move to defend himself. Knife, teeth, pounding fists, he can't bring himself to fight back as Will's heat and scent flood his senses.

But instead of biting, instead of attempting to rip his throat out or give him an equal grin upon his abdomen, Will grabs him and _nuzzles_. Hannibal's pulse pounds in his throat and emotion threatens to choke him. Will's focus narrows in on the scar on Hannibal's throat and Hannibal lifts his chin. He hesitates only a moment before his hands reach up to touch Will's back. Then he suddenly grips at Will's jacket and the force in which Hannibal draws him in, all but crushing Will to his chest, is nearly violent.

He presses his face to Will's shoulder, near his own bite, and breathes him in until he feels dizzy with it. Perhaps it changes nothing. Perhaps it changes everything. For this moment, Hannibal doesn't let go.

"If you intend to forgive as God does, I would encourage you to act sooner rather than later."

* * *

Hannibal perhaps had expected him to be fuelled by anger and out for revenge. Another firearm or a blade on his person... And while Will _is_ angry, it's simmering, a low crackling fire in a hearth that _shouldn't_ be problematic. The anger is inconsequential in the face of well, _facing_ Hannibal again. Hannibal is here, finally. After months of separation, after sustaining himself only on memories, imaginings... Hannibal is here. In the flesh. Corporeal.

Will isn't dead. He doesn't feel anywhere close to dead. Pazzi had been wrong. Hannibal has awoken him, roused him from the stasis he'd been previously locked in. The walking dead, going through the motions, feeding himself, getting up each day, but taking no real pleasure in being alive.

There's something so pure and raw about this moment. This moment that Hannibal doesn't fight him, doesn't push him back. It's a rightness that, frankly, feels _too_ right. He wants to curse biology, that they could be influenced or controlled, a slave to instincts...

It takes Hannibal a moment to reciprocate, to reach back as arms encircle him and hands suddenly grip hard and Will's yanked closer. The force doesn't scare him. This man had killed their surrogate daughter, had grievously injured them all, and now they embrace. And Will may forgive, but he won't ever forget. Still, that night is but one bad memory floating in the tempestuous sea of Will's subconscious.

This close, Hannibal feels hot through the various layers of clothing. He also smells sweeter. Will is going to chalk it up to his senses overreacting. The sudden emergence of his mate, their cliched reunion... It makes sense for things to be chemically off in his perception. He's never done this before, after all. Will has no baseline. He hadn't wanted to read very much literature about bonding either. He assumed some of it wouldn't be relevant to them.

_'If you intend to forgive as God does, I would encourage you to act sooner rather than later.'_

The God of Old Testament is wrathful. Hannibal is essentially inviting him to act now as this is likely Will's best chance. To incite a church collapse of his own doing. They're both overcome with feelings and the relief of proximity... Will's aware. They're not thinking clearly. Even without a weapon, Will could still lash out.

"We've already wandered in the desert, haven't we?" Will murmurs. Their time apart had felt desolate, like the recently freed slaves out of Egypt... He inhales deeply before running the tip of his nose up Hannibal's neck. Will presses in close.

"Tell me you've missed me too."

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that expects this to be a ruse, for Will's teeth to meet his throat in a different manner, for a blade to carve through his body, for Jack's voice to boom out from behind them at any moment, and yet he doesn't fight it. Right now he feels crippled by Will's presence. The warmth, the scent, the feel of Will's body solid and _real_ against his own, beneath his hands.

Hannibal's fists grab hard at Will's jacket, feeling the scratch of cheap fabric, the warmth of clothing worn for some time. The desire to rip said clothing away and put his hands on skin is almost overwhelming. Closeness is a dangerous temptation for men like them - or for men like him, if this _is_ a ruse.

Yet the crush of Hannibal's arms is only rivaled by the way Will presses _him_ back against the wall. Hannibal feels his back ache with it but doesn't care. Let Will crush him in return. Let them hold each other so hard that they compress one another into another state of being. Carbon into diamonds. Hannibal doesn't protest.

He drags in deep breaths of Will's scent and feels it all the way down to his bones, his pulse rapid, his instincts singing with it, and Hannibal could damn them for leading him so foolishly into this. He might not put any stock in his instincts but that does not mean that he doesn't have them. They ache, they long, they mourn, and Hannibal feels each concussive blow of biology down to his core, once shattered, now being slowly reconstructed in this new closeness.

_'We've already wandered in the desert, haven't we?'_

Hannibal's eyes close tighter and the desire to bury himself into the scent around him is visceral. Will's heat remaining separated feels impossibly cruel now, and there is an itch of something nearing desperation under Hannibal's skin as he stands, Will enfolded in his arms, struggling with history and instinct and forgiveness.

Yet when Will noses at his neck, when skin meets skin and Will makes his soft request, the words feel almost torn from Hannibal's throat. Like an explosion that had only needed a lit match to ignite, he lets out a sudden, rougher exhale and one hand leaves Will's jacket in order to reach between them. Hannibal's fingers go for the zipper of his jacket immediately and he drags it down.

While the collar of the shirt underneath is mostly-undone, Hannibal undoes the final button needed to bare Will's mark to him. It is reckless and telling and Hannibal damns his instincts anew, but when he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Will's hair and drag him in closer, the small sound he makes is almost preemptively wrecked. Will has hardly touched him, and yet Hannibal knows he's undone.

"Every day," Hannibal breathes, his voice so rough that the power behind it might have even stayed Jack's hand. "Every hour, every _second_ since we bonded."

The implication is as cruel as it is truthful; Hannibal has been missing Will since the start, since before he'd torn Abigail away, since the moment Will had declined his offer to run away together.

* * *

Without Hannibal, it's been a long, long drought for Will. The seconds had bled into minutes, minutes into days, days into weeks and then months. Time had passed slowly and in a blur all at once. He'd felt disconnected, a malaise settling over him that couldn't be shaken. Hannibal's very memory had lingered like a brand upon his soul. More than a bond, surely. It had to be.

It's possible to break bonds from severe trauma or abuse. Hannibal having attacked him, seeing Abigail die -- witnessing Hannibal kill her... It could have had the bond breaking. It should have, really. If Will had been properly traumatized, the bond would have dissolved. It would have steadily faded.

It hadn't. It hadn't left. There'd been no peace for Will, only the aching and yearning. The frustration of an impossible situation that he found himself trapped in.

And here they are now, reunited. It almost feels like a dream, but Will knows that it's not. Each passing second has him falling deeper into Hannibal, into this depravity that's blossoming again. Hannibal's smell is all around him. He's only had a few hours of a frenzied intimacy with Hannibal, to learn the feel of his body, to become enthralled with Hannibal's scent and sounds and feel. When Hannibal's hand moves, Will's not surprised to have it come between them to drag the zipper down on the leather jacket and then undo a few buttons of Hannibal's shirt.

The scar to is exposed to him now. The bonding bite created those many months ago. Hannibal makes it clear what he wants, fingers finding their way into hair to grip and then pull Will in.

Will goes. His mouth brushes against the scar and Will's eyes flutter shut. It's home. He's found home and it's within Hannibal's embrace. It's twisted, but he doesn't care. It feels right in a way that Will has longed to feel for months. Something has been balanced out. Will kisses the mark reverently. A possessive flare streaks through him.

Hannibal's words... _Every hour, every second since the bond..._ Hannibal had known... and Hannibal had known and agreed to bond with him anyway. It's almost too much to take, almost too much to bear.

"I'm here now," Will soothes, murmuring it into Hannibal's skin. He kisses up Hannibal's throat, delighting in being able to be so close to Hannibal's scent. His mouth moves without thinking on it. It doesn't matter where they are. It only matters that they're together.

"You look ridiculous," Will then says with a rasping chuckle. "But I'm going to kiss you anyway."

He does.

* * *

The first press of Will's lips against the scar he'd made all those months ago almost burns with the intensity under Hannibal's skin. Heat curls through him, through his chest, bleeding down into the tips of each finger as he clutches Will close. There are many emotions swirling within, everything from the bitterness that has courted Hannibal's thoughts for months, to the euphoria of having Will so close.

Hannibal's eyes close tightly and his grip in Will's hair is probably too violent, but Will doesn't protest. It's like Hannibal doesn't have a grip on him at all as those soft kisses press to Hannibal's skin and serve to untangle the tension he'd wound around himself like a protective shield for months.

If this is a deception, it would be kinder to kill him. A part of Hannibal still expects it, though he can scent no gunpowder or sharpness of metal on the air. All there is, is Will. Will's touch, his scent, the sound of his voice. Hannibal wants to hate how lost he is, how affected he is by Will's simple presence, but he can't. His pulse races quick under Will's lips and Hannibal just sinks into the embrace, clutching him so close that it's a wonder they don't merge into one.

Will's reassurance is the balm his senses need. The additional comment about Hannibal's attire is fond, and the sound of Will's laughter settles hot within him, bleeding a warm comfort through his body. Hannibal had not been certain he would ever hear Will's voice again, much less the soft, rough sound of his laughter. That he can hear it now is crippling in its intensity, but it soothes in a way that he cannot properly quantify, the ferocity beginning to bleed out of his grip, replaced instead with intimacy.

So when Will leans up, when he whispers his promise and then follows through, Hannibal refuses to deny him. The kiss is almost tentative at its first touch, a brush of lips that should not send a crippling emotional need through Hannibal's chest, but does. It strikes him then, in its entirety, that he and Will are not simply bonded. To ache like this, to desire him _this_ much, to feel adrift without him and to forgive so completely... the only answer is love.

To a man like Hannibal, who had dismissed such notions as fanciful and weak in his youth, who has since curled his lips at displays exactly like this, the irony is almost cruel. He wonders when he'd fallen so far, and yet the bitterness of his realization cannot hold a candle to the desperation he feels at the press of Will's lips.

Hannibal kisses him back, tentative, and then not. Like this, he is laid bare, for Will can easily feel the trembling of his body, the slight tremor in his lips as they kiss. Hannibal's fingers wind again in Will's hair, though the grip turns from violent to desperate, and when he clutches Will in closer and deepens the kiss, tasting Will, awash in his touch, his scent, his offering, the sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

It goes beyond betrayal and forgiveness, though at its core, that's what this is. By rights, they shouldn't be here with each other. It's reckless and dangerous and foolish, but as Hannibal kisses Will desperately, clutching him close and drowning in him, he can't help it. His skin burns where Will touches it and his eyes sting as they close. He buries himself in this moment, aching, hot, and overwhelmed, but content for perhaps the first time since they had parted.

* * *

At one time, the idea of kissing Hannibal would have been completely absurd. Now it isn't. It really isn't. Will can't even say how long they'd kissed that night. Minutes? Hours? Time had blurred -- _they_ had blurred. A coalescence of desire and emotion that could only be acted out with hands, mouths, limbs. He's thought about that night far too often. Far too often than what would have been considered healthy. Hannibal Lecter and their evening of desperation and depravity. It had began with a bite, the formation of another bond.

And now it's take-two, evidently. Another chance to taste and experience, to touch and - apparently - not be denied. Because Hannibal kisses him back. Light at first - like a simple greeting - and then it's not. It's so much more.

It's a passion they've never had to work for, never had to practice to perfect, because it seems intrinsic to them somehow. Hannibal shudders against him and Will delights in knowing that _he_ is the cause. It gives him a perverse thrill to have Hannibal pinned against the wall but still putting up some fight, still clutching and pulling him in closer. It's wet, lips and teeth taking, tongues teasing.

Will's hard in no time flat and he makes no show to hide it, grinding against Hannibal unabashedly. It's when he takes a deeper inhale through his nostrils that something... _clicks_.

Will pulls away, his mouth wet and his eyebrows tight in confusion.

"Fuck, Hannibal," Will growls as his hands come to grip Hannibal's shoulders as he regards his mate. "Are you--" He shakes his head before sniffing the air. "I don't think your suppressants are working."

The scent is sweeter and undeniable now that it's hit Will. He's smelled other Omega's heats before. He's fucked one during, but it's never hit him like _this_. Because this is Hannibal. _His_ mate. His mate who he hasn't even fucked yet... And Hannibal could take it, could take his knot. But the question is... Would Hannibal let him?

* * *

They are deep enough in the catacombs that no one will find them. It is reckless to have any sort of reunion here, particularly one this violent and _desperate_ , but there is minimal risk of being found. Pazzi is gone; Hannibal can no longer scent his stink. His senses are awash in Will, in the warmth of his scent, how strong it seems after so long, the aching need to remain close, and arguably to never let go. He has ached for this man for so many months now - for the teacup to gather itself up once more and remain whole, for Will to choose _him_ \- that his desperation is understandable.

He doesn't protest the way Will's hips grind against his own. Hannibal can feel the answering heat of his own arousal, the flush of it over his skin, the desire to take, to _have_ almost overwhelming in a way that it hasn't ever truly been before. Will grinds against him and the hitch to Hannibal's breathing is swallowed in the scope of their kiss, hungry, almost voracious with need. Hannibal clutches. He pulls. He traps Will in place as he kisses him, and it's through sheer determination and shock that Will even manages to break the kiss in the first place.

Hannibal immediately leans in, intending to chase the sensation, when Will's expression registers. There's a frustrated restlessness under Hannibal's skin that feels uncomfortably hot, one that has been burning and building ever since he'd scented his mate. Will's shock doesn't really make sense, but the sight of it - the way Will grips his shoulders to press him back and breathes in blatantly - is enough to make Hannibal still, albeit reluctantly.

' _I don't think your suppressants are working.'_

Breathless from the kiss and aching with the desire to pull Will back, Hannibal's brow pinches in a confusion that likely shouldn't exist. The implication throws him, making him go through several stages in the span of a moment.

First is the immediate twist within at the reminder of his status; Will has never _called_ him what he is, but it's been an unspoken arrangement to _not_ mention it. Second is shock, as his suppressants are hardly what he cares about _now_. Third is confusion, a frustrated curiosity over why Will had even mentioned them, and finally, fourth is an incredulous irritation.

"What?" Hannibal demands, breathless, his frustration immediately apparent, though also somewhat dismissive. "Of course they are. You're responding exactly as I am."

Hannibal wets his lips, his fingers curling in Will's hair. Will is meeting each of his kisses, is gripping Hannibal just as tightly as Hannibal is clutching at him. To imply that his desperation is the effect of anything _else_ isn't something that Hannibal wishes to dignify.

* * *

Until Will speaks, Hannibal attempts to lean in, to reignite their kiss. But Will must be wearing one hell of a confused expression because Hannibal _does_ stop himself from doing just that. His words have Hannibal disgruntled. Will gets it. They don't talk about it -- about Hannibal being an Omega. It's one of those unspoken rules between them. They've never discussed it. They've never needed to.

Will can imagine that Hannibal hasn't had a Heat in decades. Will doesn't blame him. If Will had been an Omega, he'd have done the same thing -- attempted to pass as a Beta at the very least. He'd have been religious with suppressants and cologne and careful to not fall into the typical Omegan stereotypes.

At one point, Will had wanted Hannibal to die. It had been his intention to have Matthew Brown kill the Doctor. And then Will wanted Hannibal to be caught, to be caged and incapable of killing -- of exerting any sort of sway on those around him. Is it just the bond that had him calling to warn Hannibal? The bond that had him searching for the very man that had gutted him and killed their daughter? Somehow Will thinks that there's more -- another layer, or multiple layers. Why would anything be simple for them? That's never been them.

Hannibal is understandably irritated. After months apart, talk of suppressants is hardly what Hannibal wants, but it can't be ignored by Will. As much as they may try to not let themselves be ruled by instincts, an emergence of a Heat within Hannibal - his mate - can't be ignored or dismissed so easily.

Hannibal's responses is telling. Hannibal doesn't wish for his actions to be anything but of his own volition. Fingers are tight in Will's hair, but he doesn't mind. The slight show of stress is... kind of nice. Will likes seeing Hannibal affected by him.

"I can smell it," Will shoots back, a little aggravated. "You're a Doctor, you should know the signs."

He rips his head free of Hannibal's grip, hissing at the slight pain as he manhandles Hannibal to turn him around. Will's hands go to Hannibal's ass, patting along his crack... and sure enough, there are signs of dampness.

* * *

Hannibal's breathing is rough and audible in this quiet, peaceful place of eternal rest. He maintains that he cannot be blamed for his response, for after so long without Will by his side, after so long without seeing him or scenting him or being able to speak with him, the sudden emergence of Will into his life once more is akin to overdose.

Perhaps Hannibal _should_ withdraw and pace himself, but in this, he doesn't want to. He wants to be selfish, to possess and to hold, to kiss Will breathless and hold him so close that he cannot withdraw again. To merge, to bleed into one another.

He fully plans on doing so, but Hannibal cannot claim to be fully present. His mind _does_ feel a little flooded with sensation, his body aching and hot, his senses awash in Will, but such responses make _sense_. Will's voice, growled as it is, is a distraction, his words nothing shy of irritating, but still Hannibal wishes to pull him closer, to once again yank Will down into a kiss, to chase the clash of teeth and to taste his blood upon Hannibal's tongue once more. Yet the sound of the growl rushes low and hot, tugging at a latent cord within his instincts, and Hannibal inwardly swats at it like a particularly vexatious fly.

Yet when Will continues, when Will mentions that he can _smell_ it, Hannibal once again goes still. The line on his brow deepens, his breathing rougher, for the meaning behind Will's statement is suddenly different. No longer is it Will commenting on his need. Now it's Will citing something physical, and regardless of how impossible a notion it is, Hannibal struggles to come back, to wrap his mind around his own physical responses. It goes beyond thinking; he's not had a heat in over two decades, and there's _no possible way_ that such a thing is happening now.

Still, his distraction offers Will a chance. Hannibal feels Will rip away from him, hears the hiss, and before he can protest, surprisingly strong hands are grabbing and shoving and turning. Hannibal's growl of irritation (of subtle distress) is quiet and clipped, but not even he can ignore the sensation of Will's hand pressing against him.

He also can't ignore the sensation of slightly-damp fabric against his skin, and instantly Hannibal stills in shock.

Chest pressed to the carved walls, each breath sending dust into the air, Hannibal quickly catalogs his own reaction. His pounding pulse, the prickling heat all over his skin, the deep, aching desperation, the fog struggling to set into his mind, and the telling wetness of a different kind of arousal. He tenses under Will's touch, shoulders going rigid, but the immediate desire to lash out is tempered by _Will_. Hannibal's struggle is visible.

"This was... not planned. They were working before," he says, with difficulty. "It changes nothing. I can-... I will find you in a few days."

* * *

Will doesn't mean to be unkind (although Hannibal certainly deserves some unkindness after everything he's done). Other than running off with Bedelia and killing at least _one_ person that Will knows of, Will doesn't know what Hannibal has been up to. He no longer has the FBI's resources. His memory and instinct have led him here -- led him to Hannibal.

Maybe Hannibal has been out of touch (perhaps in denial) with his Omegan side for so long that he'd chalked up any symptoms to God knows what. Will's no expert, but he knows switching brands can be a nightmare for some and spontaneous Heats are a thing in times of heightened stress. Will's pretty sure they're the epitome of fucking 'heightened stress.' Perhaps Will showing up -- Hannibal scenting him... Perhaps that had pushed Hannibal over the edge.

While some slick is common in times of arousal, the amount that would be needed to soak through Hannibal's boxers _and_ pants, to be felt noticeably? It's Heat slick, or the beginnings of it. It's sweeter and it's cloying. Will can smell it better now and Hannibal can't deny it. Hannibal is tense in the presence of his body betraying him.

A petty part of him wants to rub Hannibal's nose in it ( _not so high and mighty now, are you?_ ), but there's a damn part of him that empathizes with Hannibal too. Hannibal doesn't want to be at the mercy of biology -- he doesn't want their reunion to be colored by hormones, somehow making this more about instincts and less about _them_.

When Hannibal grits out his response, Will's hands come to grip Hannibal's waist tight to hold him still. He's not letting Hannibal leave. Not after the months apart.

"What? Why the fuck would I want you to leave? You're still _you_. I want you regardless," Will asserts.

And it's with a sick desperation that Will gets to his knees and fucking nuzzles against the damp spot on Hannibal's ass. "Let me taste it, please. Let me taste you," Will gasps out.

* * *

The last Heat that Hannibal had suffered through had been in his youth, and it had been one of the only times in his life where he had truly lost control. Beyond biology, beyond the fog in his mind, he'd been young and affected and struggling to get home before the full thing set in. The Alpha who had scented him and who had _dared_ to touch him - to come up behind him and lay his hands on him precisely where Will's hands now press to his waist - had not survived. An elbow to his throat had crushed his trachea and Hannibal had whirled upon him with teeth and rage.

To have Will in the same position makes Hannibal tense. There is a small thread of something defensive and feral that wishes to lash out even now, but Hannibal doesn't. He tenses; Will can undoubtedly feel it under his hands, but instead of jerking away from what truly could become a dangerous situation, Will remains. He grips Hannibal's waist tightly, and when he speaks, his tone is emphatic and prickling with something equaling the desperation that Hannibal is steadily becoming aware of under his skin.

Shame and anger still burn at his body's betrayal; he has never allowed another to touch him like this. The threat of losing control has always carved across Hannibal's senses like barbed wire. Yet he feels no indignity at Will shoving him against the wall, and he feels every point of contact as Will presses in close, his heat tempting and addicting.

Will doesn't want him to leave. _Hannibal_ does, but Will's incredulity, the hint of possessive desperation calm something both within Hannibal's instincts as well as within his mind. Yet despite his uncertainty, despite his logic, when Will hesitates and then suddenly begins to lower himself down, Hannibal's focus redirects. He hears the sound of Will's knees striking the ground and then he feels the pressure against his trousers, hears the rasp of Will's stubble as he presses close, undoubtedly breathing in.

Were Will anyone else, Hannibal would have killed him then. Instead, Hannibal winces at the lance of heat that curls insidiously through him. He aches, his body screaming _mate_ despite Hannibal's reservations. He wants to protest, to insist that Will's judgement will soon be as clouded as his, but the sound of Will begging rends him bare. Will gasps, and Hannibal echoes the sound, his bangs already damp and sticking to his forehead as he aches to allow it.

He shouldn't. He never has. But the sound of Will's voice low and desperate, the feeling of his warmth, the strength in his hands... Hannibal cannot deny him. Not something so simple, dangerous as it is. He reaches down, fingers moving to his belt, and they shake slightly as he undoes his slacks and then reaches back. One hand finds Will's hair again, merely touching, grounding himself. Will has no idea the gift that he's asked for.

"Then taste," Hannibal breathes, "I believe I owe you that much, at least this once."

* * *

Will can't help but wonder if Hannibal has permitted another to do this. Back when they'd fucked, Will had simply assumed that Hannibal likely had done it all - given it and taken it - he _was_ an Omega and had had numerous affairs over the years... But the way Hannibal tenses now, the way that he'd rather leave and deal alone than have Will witness (and likely be involved) in the Heat... It's all starting to point to the idea that Hannibal _doesn't_ let anyone touch him like this. Hannibal doesn't permit himself to be submissive or Omega in the bedroom, not even with a Beta or another Omega.

This is a side of Hannibal that Hannibal likely loathes. Hannibal would prefer to deny this aspect of biology and have it be kept controlled by any means necessary.

But Hannibal had allowed the bite--

And Will has a feeling Hannibal is going to allow this. Will feels the tension radiating off his mate, the struggle - and it _is_ a struggle - a war within, because Hannibal's _body_ may want, but his mind doesn't want to be ruled by such a thing, to give in.

And Hannibal does. Will hears the movement -- the sound of a belt being undone and then a zipper being dragged down. Will's steadily growing harder and his cock throbs when Hannibal answers, his voice sounding wrecked already.

Will's hands do not idle. They quickly work Hannibal's pants and boxers down to his calves. The leather jacket hangs a little lower, but Will simply ducks in as his hands find Hannibal's hips again and hold. He wants to go right to the source of the sweetness, but Will isn't stupid enough to rush this. He doesn't want to overwhelm Hannibal and be a fucking jerk and just go for it.

So Will leans in and licks at the wetness he can reach on the outside of Hannibal's ass. Will makes a sound and Hannibal interprets correctly, spreading his legs a little, to allow Will's tongue to travel down to the back of thighs, being thorough as he laps up the wetness there as well.

It's sweet, so much sweeter than Will can remember. When he'd been younger, he'd fucked a few Omegas, but the memory of their slick pales in comparison. This is breathtaking. Literally. Will feels short of breath as he licks and tastes and his hands grip. He moans, eyes closing for a moment before he drags his stubble across Hannibal's ass.

"You're perfect," Will praises. "You taste perfect." His hands slide down and carefully spread Hannibal. Will resists the urge to smell and instead licks lightly from Hannibal's taint over his hole.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't relax as Will slides his slacks and boxers down, his muscles still rigid despite the acceptance. He has never wanted this, has actively sought against it. At first it had been a vicious, uncomfortable pride, a hatred of the thought of losing control. Then he had met Will, and while he'd played around with his cologne and he had lowered his dose of suppressants merely to watch the effect on Will's burning brain, it had quickly become apparent to him that he didn't _like_ it.

Will Graham was such a dynamic creature, with such a beautiful capacity for violence and deception, for intelligent conversation and comfort. To see him clouded, to lower him to base instincts had seemed almost blasphemous. It is partly that, now, that holds Hannibal's reluctance.

When Will's tongue touches his skin and begins to lick, the sensation makes Hannibal twitch, his nerves alight, instinct attempting to shove him into the proper position. His knees feel a little weak but he _knows_ why. It's the urge to present himself, to lower himself to the ground for the Alpha behind him, but Hannibal stubbornly remains standing. He's never wanted this to be about biology, to be slaves to their instincts. He has never wanted Will desperate for _Omega_. He wants Will desperate for _him_. Yet despite this, there is pleasure to be found, a low, curling satisfaction that stokes the heat under his skin even hotter.

Will licks, his tongue hot, and Hannibal doesn't even register spreading his legs for him, but he reasons that Will must have done something to make him respond. For when Will's attention moves to the backs of his thighs, Hannibal's fingers tighten in his hair, the sensation sensitive enough to make his cock ache and... and to make the _other_ desperation climb higher.

It's frustrating and unsettling and yet still perfect. It's _right_ in a way Hannibal has not experienced, but he's never _wanted_ to experience it. Though given what he'd done, how he had left this man, how he had carved him open... perhaps it is fair. Perhaps this is reciprocity in its own way.

So he lets Will explore. He lets him taste. And Hannibal quietly drinks in the sound of Will's breathy moans. He breathes harder, muscles trembling with effort and the burning pleasure that seems to only grow the more that Will attends to him. Yet that trembling only increases when Will gently spreads him open, and the twist of something akin to shame is immediately dashed when Will's tongue tracks Hannibal's slick back to its source.

The first touch has Hannibal's breath catching and he doesn't realize he's attempting to push back until he notices how tightly he's gripping Will's hair. He shudders, groaning Will's name softly, feeling the sensitivity of Will's tongue over his hole all the way through his body. It's nothing he has dared experience before and Hannibal can feel sweat making the shirt beneath his jacket stick to his skin. His clothing is quickly becoming unpleasant, but he's not about to undress _here_.

"That... you feel good," Hannibal admits, though the words feel almost carved out of him. His body more than makes up for his hesitation, however, his muscles trembling and slick sliding out over Will's tongue.

* * *

Hannibal may be an Omega, but he's still fucking Hannibal. He's still the arrogant bastard that had fooled them all. He's still fiercely intelligent and wickedly dangerous. He's still a killer and an artist. He's still pretentious and prideful. The Omega side hardly matters. How could it? Why would secondary genders get in the way of everything that has transpired between them?

It's not important to Will. If Hannibal had been a Beta, it would have been fine with him. Hannibal as an Alpha? Well, Hannibal acted more like an Alpha anyway. And Will has let Hannibal penetrate him, proving just how little Will cares for the socially approved gender roles and expectations. Maybe that makes him a lousy Alpha, but he doesn't really care. Hannibal is apparently a transformative force and Will has succumbed in more ways than one.

(He's left his home, his dogs...)

Hannibal trembles and Will can't help but be pulled in further. Would he have done this without the allure of Hannibal's slick? Well, Will _has done_ this before and he knows it feels good without a Heat being present.

Will has no aim in this. Yes, his cock throbs and the desire to push Hannibal to the ground and mount him is strong, but Will isn't an asshole. He's fairly certain Hannibal wouldn't permit him to instigate like that anyway (mind over body, if anyone could do it, Hannibal could). So Will delights in Hannibal's pleasured reaction, in the quickened breathing and the groan of his name.

 _Good_. Hannibal says he feels good but his body shaking says otherwise. That's okay with Will. He doesn't need the vocal praise. He delves back in, his tongue enthusiastic against the rush of slick Hannibal is producing. His fingers have Hannibal spread before him and Will laps at Hannibal's hole, focused and greedy in its pursuit. It's syrupy and sweet and Will's lower face is a mess of wet as he grunts and breaths as he eats out Hannibal. It isn't long before he indulges and thrusts his tongue inside Hannibal's heat. If he can't fuck him with his cock, Will can at least use his tongue.

* * *

There is no way out of the catacombs for him right now. For Will, perhaps. Will isn't a wanted man, and while the scent of arousal might turn a few heads and make a few unbonded Omegas wet, little attention would be paid to him. But _Hannibal_ is another matter altogether. Walking in, his Heat-scent likely would have been muted enough to ignore, particularly as he's bonded and thus his scent isn't as attractive to others as the Heat of an unbonded Omega.

But now, given how hot his skin feels and how ready his body feels, given his proximity to _Will_... there's to be no easy escape. Not only is he wanted (though less on these shores) but his scent is likely radiating need by this point. To deny himself with Will so close will make the Heat worse, desperate to be sated. He knows the medicine. He knows how this tends to happen for other Omegas. Hannibal had treated them in his youth.

He would turn heads, would gain the attention of every unbonded Alpha in sight. Likely most Betas for that matter, and Hannibal isn't willing to subject himself to that. Unless he leaves in the evening, or unless his Heat is briefly sated, there's no leaving this place, especially with Will so close. And as Will enthusiastically laps at his skin, stoking that fire and need hotter, Hannibal feels the gripping ache of _more_ strike him again and again. It isn't something he wants; his pride already smarts that he's been caught so unawares, even if he understands the biology behind it. He can feel sweat tickling between his shoulder blades, can feel the tremble in his own muscles as the wet sounds and Will's obscene grunts of hunger fill the quiet space between them.

Any other Alpha would have pushed. Face pressed _directly_ to the source of the sweetness most Alphas crave, instinct would have won out, but Will isn't letting it. Instead his hunger is shown in the way he laps, in the pleasure he gives Hannibal, who can no longer keep quiet groans from escaping him. It's telling, and ultimately, Hannibal knows that _logistically_ he is fighting a losing battle. While a part of him snarls at the thought of allowing more, it is practical. It is likely necessary...

And it's _Will_. Perhaps, in a sense, this is Hannibal baring his throat once more, both apologizing and giving Will a chance. Another test, one that he might pass this time. While it goes against everything in his mind, it is possible...

Then, before Hannibal can say anything, he feels the sudden wet, hot press of muscle slide _inside_ of him and Will's licks are suddenly deeper. For a moment, as Hannibal's breath catches and he chokes on a soft groan, he thinks Will has made him come, but the sensation continues the longer that Will licks.

It's sensitivity that goes to Hannibal's cock and he knows he _could_ come like this, regardless of how little he wants to. He can read Will's intentions clearly though. This is Will's compromise. He won't push. He won't take. He won't insist on what he has an arguably instinctive right to. And it is that, ultimately, that makes Hannibal's decision easier.

"Will... _Will_ , wait," Hannibal rasps out, breathless as he aches. "This will not abate unless sated, albeit briefly. I would never let another even _consider_ \-- ... but for you? If this is something you want, I will... allow you to have it. _Is_ it something you want?"

* * *

In this moment, Will may be more than satisfied to simply lick and slurp, to suck and plunge his tongue inside Hannibal, but there are matters of practicality at hand here. If Hannibal is not sated - at least initially - his scent will cause trouble as they attempt to leave. Trouble is exactly what they _don't_ need right now. Jack will surely be following him soon and the police are on the alert from this most recent murder. Pazzi's got Il Mostro's scent again and is drooling at the chance to catch Hannibal. It's a mess in the making.

And yeah, beneath a chapel is hardly the best place to have his face shoved between Hannibal's asscheeks. It hadn't been his intention -- it hadn't been Will's plan, okay? Not that he'd even had a plan. A semblance of one, maybe. Desperately pieced together by shaking hands inside his mind. And he's never wanted to be this reckless, but what he wants and what he does are two different things.

His tongue spears into Hannibal relentlessly. Hannibal seems surprised by it, confused even as he tries to discern what's changed and Will knows now, most definitely, Hannibal has not allowed another to do this. No other has licked and touched and seen this side of Hannibal.

(The gravity of such a realization cannot be fully processed by Will right now.)

It takes Will a few seconds for Hannibal's voice and words to filter through. He listens and although he loathes doing so, he pulls away.

It's worth it because Hannibal is asking... Hannibal is asking him to knot him. Will is speechless as he licks his lips.

"Of course it's something I want. I want _you,_ " Will hisses. "Take your jacket off, lay it on the floor for yourself," Will then instructs (because he can't see Hannibal on the ground without some sort of barrier). Will backs up on his knees to allow Hannibal room to step out of his slacks and boxers and then to turn around and slip off the jacket.

Then Hannibal fucking Lecter is laying that jacket on the dusty floor and getting on his hands and knees for him and Will can't help but shudder, groaning as he crawls closer to his mate. His hands come to Hannibal's lower back as he pets down sweaty skin.

"You sure?" His finger slides between Hannibal's wet cleft.

* * *

Will pulling _away_ is unexpectedly agonizing. Hannibal has done the reading; he knows how Omegas react during their Heats, but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. He knows that an Omega denied mid-rut will feel more desperate, knows their hormones will spike in an attempt to catch their partner's attention, but Hannibal isn't expecting the _ache_ that stabs through him. It's need so sharp that it hurts, ripping a surprised grunt from his throat as his hands curl against the wall.

From there, he does his best to listen, but his focus narrows down on Will's soft hiss, his claim, and then his order. Were it any other time, Hannibal might have protested or stubbornly done this under his own time, but he's not far gone enough to not realize that Will is doing this for _him_.

Will knows that he wouldn't appreciate kneeling upon the floor, and it's that small twist of compassion - that silent statement that Will _cares_ , even now, even after everything - that undoes him.

Hannibal steps out of his slacks and boxers and slides his jacket from his shoulders after unzipping it. The motion is fluid, and after a moment, Hannibal lays the jacket down on the floor. There's a large pillar behind them, something to protect their backs, and there's another pillar to their side. They are as protected as they can be here (and again, Hannibal quietly damns himself for not realizing his instincts had been trying to find somewhere _safe_ for intimacy). Knowing this, Hannibal lowers himself down, feeling a prickle of shame and irritation slide down his spine, but it's immediately contrasted to the way his instincts _sing_ at the position.

It's Will's groan that cuts through the anger enough for Hannibal to think straight. He doesn't like this; he doesn't like being made a slave to his instincts, but having _Will_ just as affected, sharing this moment of vulnerability with the only one who has ever dared earn it, makes the anger fade. He feels Will's fingers slide over his skin and the stabbing ache of need hits again. Hannibal grinds his teeth against it, muscles trembling, and the urge to press back, to chase Will's fingers - to chase _Will_ \- is bordering on overwhelming.

"I don't... have much of a choice," Hannibal breathes out, his voice rough. "Not if I wish to leave here _with_ you. If you are here to come with me, to finally choose me and to _stay_... then you are the only one who has ever deserved this side of me. I'm sure." Hannibal swallows, then wets his lips. A drop of slick slides down his inner-thigh and Hannibal _aches_.

"Please, Will."

* * *

Consent can be an iffy issue when dealing with Heats, but Will is going to ask anyway. It _would_ be damn difficult to pull himself away now, after having tasted Hannibal, after having his tongue inside of him too, but Will thinks he could do it. He's not some rabid dog. He's not about to rape Hannibal and claim that he was only 'giving him what he needed.' He's not that kind of Alpha. Scratch that, he's not that kind of _person_.

This is not ideal. There is a chance of being discovered and it's not like they want any sort of trouble. The last thing the infamous Monster of Florence needs is to be charged with some form of public indecency and get Pazzi on his tail more so.

It still seems like a fever dream. Their environment smells dank and musty, the candles flicker as they hide in mostly shadows. This consummation is going to take place on hallowed ground, but it's only Hannibal that commands Will's fervor. Hannibal's sweet aroma fills Will's senses, and while instincts may have facilitated this turn off events, Will still knows it's _them_.

The ground is hard under Will's knees. His cock is trapped in boxers and slacks but Will isn't going to just rudely whip it out until Hannibal answers.

_'If you are here to come with me, to finally choose me and to stay... then you are the only one who has ever deserved this side of me. I'm sure.'_

The words are like a punch to his gut and when Hannibal says _please_ , just shy of begging, two fingers push inside. He doesn't _need_ to finger Hannibal, but there's no guarantee that Hannibal will ever let him do this again. If that's the case, Will is going to lick and taste and touch before the actual fucking. He's going to be greedy and take what he can, what Hannibal will allow.

He pumps his fingers steadily, curving them occasionally as his free hand fumbles at the button on his pants.

"I choose you, I fucking choose you, Hannibal," Will grits out.

Hannibal is a wet silken heat that Will's fingers easily squish into. When he finally gets his dick free, Will strokes it roughly a few times and then shuffles closer, slipping his fingers out. He smears the copious amount of slick on his cock before taking it in hand and positioning it in front of Hannibal's waiting hole.

"Deep breath." That's all he says before Will pushes in and his hands come up to hold onto Hannibal's hips. When he sinks into the scorching welcoming heat, Will groans and his fingers tighten their grip on Hannibal's waist.

* * *

In truth, Hannibal is expecting Will to not waste time, for neither of them knows how much time they _have_. While it is unlikely that anyone will come down here, there is still a chance, and so Will hastening would make sense. So when Hannibal's quiet plea is met with the immediate press of fingers, he is both confused and then shocked. Confused because Will doesn't _need_ to do this, and then shocked because the sensation all but carves through him, leaving him gasping as his back arches in surprise.

This is not something Hannibal has experience with. The thought of losing control, of not being present in his own mind, his own body, had never appealed, and so he had never so much as dared to explore _himself_ like this. Will's touch is the first, and the desperation that bleeds out through every inch of Hannibal's body as Will's fingers press inside of him almost rips his breath away.

There is no conscious decision on Hannibal's part to spread his legs wider, but he does it, instincts kicking in enough to dictate his stance. Will's fingers slide in easily, but the sensation of them is both satisfying and maddening in a way that feels like a restless fire under Hannibal's skin. It's what he immediately knows that he needs, but it's not quite right, stoking the fire higher.

Hannibal's arms tremble as pleasure curls within, and while the thought makes him burn with humiliation, he does drop down onto his elbows instead, leaning his head down to press his forehead to the back of one of his forearms. His groan is deep, but the sound grows louder when Will _speaks_.

And that, ultimately, is what makes this worthwhile. The words bypass the Heat and go straight to Hannibal's heart. They curl up, comfortable, sated, and Hannibal trembles with emotion on top of sensation as the words settle into him.

Will is choosing _him_. Finally. No more aching loneliness, no more dead weight within his chest, no more unbearable agony... His eyes close as they burn with emotion, and Hannibal's reservations lessen as he kneels there.

He shivers at the sensation of Will's fingers pumping into him and curling, for the pleasure is different, is deeper in a way he's unfamiliar with. Hannibal basks in it for all that it still makes him feel slightly uncomfortable. But when the scent of Will's arousal increases with the sound of a zipper and Hannibal realizes that Will is preparing him with Hannibal's own slick, the sense of _right_ is so strong that it's unsettling.

His muscles are trembling with the effort of it when Will finally positions himself, and though this wouldn't be his main choice, that this is _Will_ makes all the difference. He nods, and he draws a deep breath when prompted, but it's a futile endeavor. For the moment that Will presses into him, Hannibal releases that same breath on a quiet rush, his back arching as Will pushes in deep.

It is sensation unlike he's felt before, a deep, aching pleasure that sears through him. There's a whisper of _too much_ , but it's overshadowed by the pleasure and rightness of Will sliding into him. Hannibal doesn't even register pushing back, but when he feels Will's hips pressed close to his skin, Hannibal has to muffle his groan against one of his sleeves.

His chest heaves as he breathes, skin slick with sweat, shirt already sticking to him as the first wave of Heat crests. His cock aches, but it's a distant concern; like this, wired up on unfamiliar sensation, Hannibal can't tell if he's already come. His focus has narrowed in on Will - his cock, his hands, the press of his hips - and while there is a distant note of pain from the unfamiliarity of this, it is still pleasant.

" _Oh_ , Will," Hannibal hisses, fingers clawing at his jacket instead of the floor. Shame and anger at his situation still exist, but his need is quickly beginning to outshine even that. The words in his mind - _I trust you, I need you, I love you_ \- don't make it out. Instead, he grinds out, "I need--... _please_ , Will."

* * *

Will isn't even certain he'd made the choice -- or at least he hadn't been decided when he'd left his home and set off on this journey. He'd only known that he had to _find_ Hannibal. To see him again... Will hadn't been exactly sure of the details, of what would follow, but he hadn't let that hold him back. The itch had to be scratched. Hannibal had been his drug of choice and Will had tired of being clean.

Clean and acceptable are overrated. He's not here to be Jack's puppet or the fixer-upper for Alana. He's Hannibal's mate and he's going to take care of him. Yes, it's messed up, _they're_ messed up, but better together than alone. Will's tired of being alone and he assumes it's the same for Hannibal.

The choice has been made. How could he think of giving Hannibal up _now?_ Will knows how separation feels. He knows of the despondent ache, the restless nights, the sheer depth of _incompleteness_ that had clung to him. He'd honestly hadn't thought taking a mate would get to him this bad... He'd thought some of the symptoms were exaggerated. (He has a sneaking suspicion that it isn't just the bond.)

But here he is, sliding into Hannibal and the sense of _rightness_ is almost overwhelming. The whole situation seems like a fantasy, Hannibal on his hands and knees, ass raised in the air for him, so wet and taking his cock so perfectly. Hannibal pushing back might be the single best thing Will's experienced. It's like a fucking reward in and of itself. And then Hannibal _speaks_ , Will's name sounding like a curse and Will can't help but groan after Hannibal utters his _please_.

"I'm here, it's okay," Will murmurs... And it should be stranger to be offering comfort to the likes of Hannibal Lecter (and it probably will later on, probably will bother Hannibal too), but in this heated moment of reignited connection, it doesn't. Will is going to to try his best to satisfy Hannibal, to at least take the edge off so that they can leave together.

He doesn't wait or tease. Once fully sheathed in Hannibal, Will draws out to only snap back in. His hips set a demanding pace, fucking into Hannibal's body deeply and quickly. The ground is hard on his knees, but Hannibal's skin is soft and Hannibal's channel is scorching hot and receptive. Will feels so fucking much that he has to bite his lip to not babble whatever useless sentiment is threatening to come out. Hannibal is perfect underneath him and Will's cock is drenched in slick. His heart thunders in his chest as pleasure sings in his body.

* * *

There is no telling what the next few hours will bring. Hannibal _hopes_ that Will might remain, hopes that because Will has apparently chosen him, it means that he will _stay_ , but with Will Graham there is never any real guarantee. Hannibal has never been able to predict him, and while instinct is working as a tether between them, there is always the danger that Hannibal has once again been taken in. Yet like this, feeling the way Will fills him, feeling the tightness of his grip upon Hannibal's waist and the thick, silken heat of his cock, he cannot bring himself to worry about what will come after.

Every sense, every second of Hannibal's attention, is narrowed in on the feeling of Will's cock and his hands, every point of connection. He is not yet lost to the crush of his Heat, the desperation befitting most of his gender when desire chokes the personality from their minds and leaves them as nothing but pure, driven instinct. That is something that Hannibal refuses to allow, but he can see the appeal, can feel the fevered desperation as Will presses in deep.

The reassurance has him letting out a shuddered breath and Hannibal presses his forehead harder against the back of one arm. He takes a number of deep breaths, muscles trembling as his body adjusts quickly. Even so, Hannibal is not expecting Will to comply with his request so fully. Hannibal feels him draw back and expects a few rocking thrusts, testing the waters, working him into it. So when Will's hips just _snap_ forward and then maintain that demanding, almost brutal pace, Hannibal tenses and muffles a cry of surprise against his arm before instinct and need all but tether him in place. The pace is animalistic and intense, and Hannibal's nails dig into the leather of his jacket as his back arches, instinctively reacting to draw Will in as deep as he can.

The pleasure is nothing like he's used to, and that, more than anything, is what throws him. It is deep and intense, almost curling through every limb, so intense that even his fingertips ache with it as he digs them into his jacket. He's not familiar with this, how to respond to _this_ type of pleasure, and the way his hips jerk forward and then press back makes it obvious.

Will's hands help, though Hannibal doesn't particularly appreciate being held still, but the control being taken from him leaves him spiraling. He's never been a passive lover, always striving to ensure his partner is satisfied, but it's always been him in control. Even those times where someone had asked to ride him, Hannibal had only let them control so much, choosing instead to thrust and let them bask in the sensation.

He struggles with the conflicting desires until he shifts - be it by accident or instinct - and the angle of Will's thrusts changes. At the first thrust, Hannibal's teeth find his sleeve, muffling the startled, desperate sound of pleasure he chokes out, and he presses back instinctively, clenching down around Will's cock and aching for something that he can't put into words.

He doesn't realize he's shaking, nor is he aware of the softer, clipped sounds that escape his throat as he _finally_ allows Will to take control, following his silent, instinctive lead and reaping the benefits of it. The rest of the world bleeds away; the mustiness of the catacombs, the hard ground under him, the people undoubtedly wandering around above ground all fade in Hannibal's mind, replaced with _Will_.

* * *

It's intense in a way that Will hadn't been prepared for. No matter how much one can be aware of and know, nothing compares to the real thing. It's more than just a receptive and eager body beneath him, it's _Hannibal_ letting him do this -- it's _Hannibal_ allowing himself to be known so intimately and deeply. There's no guarantee this will ever happen again. Surprise had been on his side this time and Will is damn appreciative of it.

In this most holy of places, they celebrate the sins of the flesh. Their vocalizations must be tempered and time is not on their side. The sound of skin on skin rings out, obvious and condemning. Hannibal tries to muffle himself and it's a pity that it needs to be done, but Will isn't so far gone to suggest otherwise. Will wishes it wasn't the case, he wishes that they both could be as loud and frenzied as they want to be.

He notices Hannibal shift (whether it's conscious or not, Will doesn't know), but the reaction to the new angle is rather blatant. Hannibal is pushing back and clenching in the most exquisite of ways and Will's hips stutter, honestly surprised that it could feel better.

"Fuck, Hannibal," Will growls out. "You're perfect, so perfect like this." Will's thrusts may slow a little, but they're still hard and deep as he runs his hands up Hannibal's back underneath his shirt, delighting in the feel of skin and contact.

And suddenly it's not enough, there's too much space between them and Will stops fucking as he drapes himself over Hannibal's back, causing Hannibal to have to lean down a little lower to bear his weight. Will's hands grasp onto Hannibal's wrists. They're both hot and sweaty, but Will loves the feeling of laying on top of Hannibal, of touching as many points of contact as they can.

Like this, he can't do much other than hump Hannibal but Will doesn't care. He rabbits into his mate, frenzied and feeling his knot begin to form. Will's hair feels plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping freely.

"Can-- Can I knot--?" Will grits out against Hannibal's neck. (He's honestly a little concerned if Hannibal says no, if he'll be able to stop himself.)

* * *

This is visceral and base, but it goes beyond even that as Hannibal gives and Will takes and they come together in this aching moment. There are emotions within, spiraling and swirling, digging sharply into Hannibal's heart as pleasure sings through his body. Hannibal feels dizzy with it as he lets himself go lax, his breathing rough enough to almost growl every few exhales, and his body trembling with the effort of... something.

Holding himself up? Remaining still? The crush of sensation, of pleasure? Perhaps all of the above. Hannibal's focus is on Will, the warmth of his skin, the weight and heat of his cock, the sharp smack of his hips against Hannibal's ass as he thrusts hard and deep and _perfect_. And as he gives into this - for there is no denying the _need_ , and the knowledge that he will be useless without allowing this - Hannibal files every one of those observations away.

Will's voice - his praise - is a white noise where words bleed into sensation. Hannibal can't quite register them, but he knows the tone. He knows that Will is pleased, and beyond even the heat, the knowledge warms something within him. He groans roughly as Will's thrusts slow down, but ultimately even Hannibal is taken off guard when Will suddenly shifts.

He feels hands upon his wrists, feels Will's cock press in impossibly deep, and he feels Will's weight upon his back. The sudden overload of closeness makes Hannibal curse under his breath, makes him choke on a moan, and he adjusts his position to make it easier as Will's hips rock against him. The thrusts are nowhere near as hard or jarring, but they're still deep. Like this, quick, frenzied, almost a grind, Hannibal shudders viscerally and hisses, " _please_ ," and then continues, for it's the only thing he can think about. Will feels _good_ , like he's giving Hannibal something he hadn't even known he'd needed, and he can feel something - likely orgasm - building wild and sharply within.

The drip of Will's sweat against Hannibal's skin only offers him more of Will's scent, and Hannibal arches into it, pressing his back to Will's chest as he spreads his legs a little wider. Yet when Will thrusts in deep and Hannibal feels a little more pressure within, something in his instincts seems to take notice. Hannibal's resulting sound is strangled, something that might have been a whine at one point.

He's not far gone enough that he doesn't understand the concept of knotting, and there is a part of him that wants to growl and dismiss the idea. And yet as Will's hips pump, as Hannibal feels the crush of sensation almost suffocating around him and his need shoots up to new heights, there is no question. He grinds his teeth and shudders viscerally. He'd never give this to anyone else. Just Will. Only Will.

"Yes," Hannibal hisses, feeling a sharp twist of pleasure that makes him cry out into the sleeve of his shirt. His muscles clench and twitch, and Hannibal rides the sensation as he feels the first, deep pulse of pleasure that has him gasping and clawing at the jacket beneath him.

" _Yes_ , Will. Please. _Please_ bite."

* * *

Will wants to think that if Hannibal declines his knot that he'd do the tried and true fuck until he's almost there and then pull out and grip around it with his hand. It's not bad by any means. There are options. Will has had way more orgasms that way than actually knotting _in_ someone. He's actually only knotted in someone _once_. So he's used to _not_ knotting in someone rather than the alternative.

But the alternative seems cruel now. He has Hannibal underneath him, Hannibal who presses back into him and spreads his legs to take him deeper. Hannibal who's trying his hardest to not be vocal, but still can't help a few strained sounds escape. He wants and something primal inside insists that he _needs_ it too.

Hannibal says _yes_. The word is then repeated and Will feels his knot swell in return as relief floods through him. Will doesn't miss the request for him to bite either. He can do that. Of course he can do that for Hannibal. He _wants_ to do that.

"Okay, okay," Will growls. It only takes a few more hurried thrusts before he feels the surge of pleasure ignite and he bites down at Hannibal's nape as his knot locks him into place, buried deep within Hannibal. The orgasm is like nothing he's ever felt before. It's hot and scorching and perfect and Will's teeth break skin as blood bursts in Will's mouth. His cock pulsates as he fills Hannibal. Will's hands grip Hannibal's wrists tightly.

 _Mate._ The word streaks through Will's mind. Everything is better, everything is heightened. He finally feels right, finally feels whole.

* * *

It feels like heat, a scorching, deadly heat dancing along his skin but not igniting. Hannibal's skin burns where Will's skin presses against him, and in those few seconds that Will's thrusts speed up as he nears his own edge, Hannibal cannot help the fevered thoughts that it's not enough skin-to-skin contact. He has heard many an Omega whine about the effects of their Heats before, and he is no stranger to them - though not in many years.

Still... this is new. This is intense and visceral and instinctual down to his core as his lungs drag in deep but shallow breaths and his muscles begin to seize in need. The fire under his skin just keeps burning brighter, keeps licking him with its flames, and Hannibal feels as though he will surely turn to ash if something isn't done.

Nothing can prepare him for the sensation that follows. Will's hips snap in deep, and while there is resistance, while it does hurt, the sensation of Will's nearly-full knot meeting resistance and then pushing inside of him will forever be locked within Hannibal's mind.

The lance of sensitivity is almost cruel, and before Hannibal has even noticed it, pleasure spikes and he comes, hard. The intensity is shattering and visceral, but more than that, the sensation of _right_ and of _satisfaction_ burn within him. He feels Will's teeth latch onto his nape and the pain blooms bright, but Hannibal doesn't object. Instead he shakes and shudders and gasps as Will's knot locks itself within his body and presses hard against his prostate.

A rush of slick eases the sting, and Hannibal cannot find it within himself to even be irritated as his come streaks onto his jacket. The pleasure is too deep, too intense, and Hannibal knows that were they facing one another, Will's back would be a mangled mess from the wild clawing of Hannibal's nails as he all but writhes his pleasure, panting harshly against his forearm.

He feels the burning heat within, feels Will's knot swell to lock them in place, and pleasure pulses deeply from the point of contact. He doesn't even notice that he had come untouched, not at first, but when the thought lazily breaks its way past the thrumming pleasure, he isn't surprised. This is a very different orgasm, much deeper and longer, and every time he clenches down, the pressure of Will's knot only feels better.

He feels something wet slide down to drip off his clavicle, and that is the only real indication he has that Will has bitten to break skin. The pain is something Hannibal notices belatedly, an angry burn that feels _right._ He looks back at Will over one shoulder, dazed, lids heavy and still breathing harder with his pleasure.

"Thank you," Hannibal breathes, and even his whisper sounds wrecked as he shudders. "My Will."

* * *

Sweat and slick and blood and come. They're a mess, but they're a mess together. With each other, _for_ each other. Will's never been ruled by sex, never wanted to be controlled by his biology, but he can't deny the sheer _rightness_ of this all. Teacups may not come back together, but _they_ have. Despite logic, despite all odds...

And Hannibal's hand may have held the knife that maimed him and killed her, but Hannibal hadn't pushed him away. Instead, he'd crafted Will a broken heart, a Valentine. Hannibal is risking much in being here, in coming to a place that he knew Will would look. And Pazzi has Hannibal's scent, so to speak. They're not in the clear yet.

But right now, his knot locks him deep within Hannibal and the pleasure fades from the initial surge, but still persists. The aftershocks are felt deep and almost vibrating. It's _good._ It's an intimacy he's never known or cared for. Hannibal's blood tastes sweet and he laps at the wound he's created while Hannibal _thanks_ him. (Heat drunk maybe? Hannibal sounds pretty wrecked.)

Will can only groan and rock a little, his hands tight around Hannibal's arms. This can't be easy practically draped over Hannibal, but it's too late now.

"Yeah... Yes," Will mumbles nearly a minute later. "I'm yours and you're mine." Saying the words doesn't feel so difficult; the implication not so daunting. Not anymore.

Finding a partner, finding a mate, being seen and known... Will hadn't been aware that he'd even wanted such things but Hannibal had offered and maybe Will does want those things.

"I know we need to go... Need to get out of here. Will do soon as possible," Will says as his hips shift, testing his knot. Hopefully in a few minutes he can slip out. In the meantime he moans softly as he kisses at whatever skin his mouth can reach.

* * *

Hannibal is not quite heat drunk, though it is a very near thing, the partition in his mind between sense and instinct very thin at present. He feels full in a way he has never desired before, Will's knot pressing deep and drawing his pleasure out in a way he has not experienced prior to this. It's _good_ for all its intensity, a point of contact where he is able to viscerally feel Will's pulse deep within his body. This has meaning, has worth, and as Hannibal basks in the press of Will's body, he feels the first few tendrils of sense beginning to return to him. They're weak, numbed by the intensity of his pleasure, but they're there.

Hannibal feels content. Rational thought is a slow crawl; he knows that they must leave, that this is reckless, that any moment risks discovery, but Hannibal cares little with Will atop him. And as each minute of their tie passes, Hannibal can feel pleasure trembling through him. The temptation to press for more is there, but it would be even more reckless.

So when Will voices his thoughts and tests his knot, Hannibal moans softly under his breath and then finally manages a nod. It's proof he's coming back to himself.

"We are safe for now," Hannibal breathes.

Still, there is urgency in their positioning, and Will must know that on an instinctual level. It's perhaps ten minutes later when he feels the pressure within begin to lessen. All it takes is a (touchingly careful) shift of Will's hips, and Hannibal lets out a long, sharper breath as he feels Will's knot pop out of him, leaving him feeling oddly empty, but the contact helps.

The mess is... unpleasant, though also unavoidable. Hannibal feels the wetness of Will's come and his own slick sliding down his thighs, but there's nothing to be done about it for now. Shakily, with Will's assistance, Hannibal manages to get his arms under him again and ease up. While he can feel the Heat simmering low in his mind, it is no longer ravenous as it was.

It's a break, and neither of them are willing to risk missing this window of opportunity. So while Hannibal is less than enthused about re-dressing while his skin is as messy as it is, he does so. Together he and Will redress, Hannibal grimacing at the discomfort, but every time it threatens to bother him, he needs only to look over at Will and it vanishes.

Will is _here_. Will hasn't left. There is nothing in his eyes that indicates that he _wishes_ to leave Hannibal here, and the knowledge settles something deep within. Hannibal slides on his jacket again - messy as it is - and swallows.

"I've rented a villa. Come with me."

Hannibal reaches over. His hand brushes against Will's at first, a slow touch, and then slides back to settle upon Will's lower back. No further words are shared as Will looks at him and Hannibal sees only acceptance in his eyes. As he had ached so fervently for so many months ago, they finally leave, together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's slipped his wrists into these cuffs willingly. Being seen and known and having the favor returned... Well, he doesn't want to let it go. He's not going to let Hannibal go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the feels-smut-conflict train! ヽ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)ﾉ
> 
> Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com)

There is no great way to pull out, re-dress and leave, but they manage. Sex is messy, but Heat sex is far worse. A condom would have helped some, but it isn't like either of them had _planned_ on this happening. Will definitely hadn't. The months that they've been separated, yes, Will had fantasized (and a few of them had even been Hannibal fucking him, oddly enough), but he would have never thought they would just _go for it_ first thing. If it hadn't been for Hannibal's Heat, Will doubts that they would have.

Their skin is wet with slick, come and sweat. It makes the clothes rather uncomfortable, but probably more so for Hannibal. Will is honestly used to sweating a lot to begin with. Will gives Hannibal's motorcycle an incredulous look, but it likely makes sense to cultivate a new identity and use a means of transportation that the FBI wouldn't expect. 

Will has a rental car. If he leaves it, it will be suspicious. So Hannibal gives him the address and Will follows him just in case. It feels borderline like a dream. He drives with his window down, following Hannibal's sleek black motorcycle through the streets.

For once, he feels settled. He feels decided. It's a relief. It's so much so that Will thinks he could possibly cry if he let himself. 

Of course, it's still fucking scary. It's choosing _Hannibal Lecter._ It's admitting that there _is_ an unbreakable bond and that he plans to commit fully to it now. There is no more room for indecision, for toeing the line, for possibly being Jack's man.

Of course Hannibal has an entire villa that he's likely either bought or rented. It's secluded, with high stone walls around the property, lush trees, beautiful architecture. Hannibal inputs the security password for the gate and Will follows him in and parks. He says nothing as he joins Hannibal at the door, glancing around at the large property. It feels like some romantic get-away. ...But why shouldn't it be one? They deserve some fucking happiness too. He doubts Bedelia is here. He doesn't smell her. He doesn't want to ask about her either.

When Hannibal lets them inside, Will removes his shoes and jacket. 

"You should probably shower before it hits you again..." Will suggests. 

* * *

The entire trip to the villa feels hazy, like the fuzziness surrounding a remembered dream, or a fog on the horizon that obscures familiar shapes, but not so much as to be unrecognizable. The rumble of the motorcycle under Hannibal is tactile, as is the chill to the handlebars, but he quietly basks in it, in the rush of cooler air on his overheated skin and the brief break in sensitivity. Oh, it will return. Hannibal's mind feels hazy - proof that while his Heat has been sated, it is only temporary - but getting somewhere safe will help. Getting somewhere where he and Will can _exist_ together will help.

Through the trip, Hannibal finds himself distractedly glancing in his mirrors, checking that Will is still there, still following him. Each time he sees the shoddy rental car, he feels a flare of something that feels like awe and relief. Knowing that Will is still there, that he's chosen _Hannibal_ , is almost too much to take. He can feel the prickling of sensation along his skin as he takes corners slightly-sharper than he should. 

His Heat will return, and given the way he can already feel the haze of it lingering, they don't have a _lot_ of time. It is time enough to reach Hannibal's villa, though, and as he punches in the code for the gate and leads the way inside, Hannibal does what he can to ignore the sensation of sweat, come, and slick staining his clothes. His motorcycle will undoubtedly smell like Heat for some time.

Hannibal leaves his helmet on the bike and closes the gate behind them. He leads the way into the house, quickly stripping off his come-stained leather jacket to drop to a heap on the floor. It will need to be cleaned anyway. Grimacing, Hannibal slides his shoes off and shifts, the cooling sensation of his own slick on his thighs and the knowledge that Will's come has undoubtedly dripped down them as well only serving to make him feel more antsy. So Will's suggestion is met with easy acceptance.

"I believe we both should," Hannibal suggests, and while there is a roughness to his voice - be it from arousal or exhaustion, not even he knows - he still manages to sound practical. 

He leads the way upstairs to the shower, through a richly-furnished hallway and into a bedroom that is wide, spacious, adorned with flowing curtains and a large bed, and not exactly Hannibal's typical style. He pays it no mind as he leads the way into the connected en suite, and as he turns the shower on to warm up, he carefully strips himself down. The fabric clings to him, damp with sweat and lingering Heat, but his slacks are likely a lost cause. Hannibal glances at them and then tosses them aside. Before the next wave hits him, he intends to wash the _catacombs_ off of his skin. 

"Join me," he offers with a quick glance back at Will. It still feels almost impossible that they have this now. With a lingering look, Hannibal steps into the shower.

* * *

They're here. Together. They've made it. They've jumped through the hurdles (of their own making) and they've found each other. The ground is solid under Will's feet and Hannibal is within distance to reach out and touch. It still feels surreal, like a mirage or a dream, hazy and too good to be true. But when Hannibal simply suggests that that _both_ should shower, Will can't find any reason not to. It is real.

Will is fine with showering together. He's surprisingly fine with it, actually. After what they've done, a shower seems laughably _normal._ Will follows Hannibal's through a lavishly decorated home, although it doesn't exactly _feel_ like Hannibal. It doesn't look lived in either. Will suspects that this isn't Hannibal's permanent residence. He doesn't know who Hannibal is here in Italy, what he's set up for himself. Those are problems for later. Like Bedelia. (Will tries to quash his possessive jealousy from rising up and polluting this moment.)

When they're in the attached bathroom, Hannibal wastes no time in stripping himself free of ruined, damp clothing. Will has to resist standing there like an idiot and staring as familiar skin is revealed to him. He wants to smell and lick and kiss and touch that skin again. 

Instead, Will follows suit, his hands not shaking as he hastily undresses. He joins Hannibal in the shower, sliding the glass door closed after him.

The spray of hot water is a relief, but what truly makes Will feel good is gathering Hannibal close to him, his arms wrapping around Hannibal's hips and pulling them flush together. Will can still smell slick and come, but underneath it all is _Hannibal_ and that's what really matters. His heart pounds in his chest as Will noses along their bond mark on Hannibal's neck.

"You know I love you, right?" Will says, his hands rubbing soothingly at Hannibal's lower back. "And I'm not letting you leave me again, you fucker." 

His mouth fits over the scar and he bites softly.

* * *

It feels like a dream as Hannibal steps into the shower. The water is hot and soothes tense muscles but it is the added scent in the bathroom that truly washes over him, leaving him feeling bare and raw in a different way than what he had allowed in the catacombs. He knows that in time he might feel some measure of embarrassment or shame over what he'd done, but as he stands under the spray of the shower and watches Will hastily strip in order to join him, he feels only awe. 

Awe and pleasure, for he is not bitter and alone, nor quietly seething over Bedelia's presence in his life instead of having Will by his side. He watches through the pouring water as Will comes to join him, and Hannibal quietly lifts a hand to brush his hair from his eyes as he turns to face Will - his _mate_.

If Hannibal had been expecting hesitation or awkwardness, he's rewarded with none. Instead he catches a quick glimpse of the lurid mark upon Will's abdomen - previously hidden from him - and then Will wraps his arms around him with a tenderness that Hannibal isn't expecting. 

Hannibal's exhale is almost ragged, and there is an ache deep within that has nothing to do with sex or arousal when he feels Will gather him in close, nosing at the mark upon Hannibal's skin. The bite from the catacombs is angry and the water makes the area run red but Will's mark - the mating bite - is dark against Hannibal's skin, a veritable brand. He shivers.

And then Will speaks, and Hannibal feels like he's just taken a blow right to the stomach with how entirely it winds him. His gasp is quiet, hardly audible over the pounding water, and Hannibal feels the tension suddenly begin to bleed from his body. He leans into Will's touch, into the firmness of his chest. He tucks his face in against the crook of Will's neck, and Hannibal feels even more overcome when he feels the ridges of his faded bite along Will's throat. 

His softer groan is both awed and wrecked, and Hannibal wraps his arms around Will in return, pulling him close. He breathes in Will's scent deeply, sliding his lips over warm skin, and when Will bites, Hannibal only holds onto him tighter and lowers his shoulder, giving Will more room.

" _Will_ ," Hannibal breathes, his voice low and almost ragged. His fingers dig into Will's shoulders, clutching him close. "I do now. If you are truly here for good, to _stay_ , I will not leave you." 

Hannibal scrapes his teeth over Will's shoulder, tasting the light salt of his sweat and feeling warmth begin to creep down through him. 

"I love you. I gave myself to you freely. I don't want another."

* * *

Will used to be so disgruntled at the very thought or hint that he'd developed feelings for Hannibal. It had seemed ludicrous. Ridiculous that he even could. The Chesapeake Ripper. Il Mostro. Cannibal. Sadist. Killer. Doctor. Hannibal Lecter has many titles, he's known by many names, but now all Will thinks and cares about is _mate._

That fateful night, Hannibal had worked hard to ensure that his bite scarred too. Hannibal had bitten over it a few times, teeth and lips bloody -- both of their necks bloody in a twinned bonding. Two souls meeting and conjoining -- despite the circumstances, despite their obstacles. While the scar is not overly pronounced like it is on Hannibal, it's still there. Faint, but visible. 

They both have marked each other. Their outside matching what's inside. So it makes sense to not hide anymore. This is Will's truth. It may not be pretty, it may not make sense, but he does love the killer of their daughter. He loves this fierce ruthless man, loves this refined monster. 

So he tells Hannibal. And maybe Will throws in a 'fucker' too, but who cares? Hannibal, in turn, wraps his arms around Will and they're pressed close, flesh against flesh. Hannibal drops his shoulder, allowing Will to taste and bite. It's more a show of affection. Will has no need to claim again, to bite until bleeding.

Hannibal's words are reassurance and a balm. Will's eyes close and he shudders. Hannibal's skin is warm, Will still feels drawn to mount and knot, but he pushes it down. It's not important . Just being with Hannibal is what matters.

_'I love you. I gave myself to you freely. I don't want another.'_

Will feels a surge of possessiveness streak through him. He kisses at the mark and then up Hannibal's neck and to his jaw. 

"You're damn right you don't want another," Will growls. "You're mine." His hands dip lower and he squeezes Hannibal's ass. "And I'm yours." 

Will leans in and his hands then come up to grip into wet hair. He pulls Hannibal's head up in order to connect their mouths.

* * *

The words are not new, though Hannibal has never said them out loud before. He feels blindsided by Will's honesty, for he had never expected Will to be so forthcoming. Even neck-deep in his deception, even splayed under Hannibal that evening they had shared back in Baltimore, Will had never dared to say those words. Surely they would have hooked him effortlessly, would have taken his hope and twisted it and ultimately tainted the words for good. Even then, they had both known on some level. Hannibal would have never allowed just anyone to place a mating bite upon his unmarked throat, and Will had to have suspected how strong that pull would be. 

A lure - a _line_ \- that had inexorably drawn Will to find him in Florence. Hannibal basks in the sound of the words, in the feel of them, and he buries himself in the warmth of the water, but ultimately in the strength of Will's hold. Hannibal may be stronger but there is something settling about the crush of possession in Will's touch, the way his teeth skate over flesh, and the way those bites turn to kisses, and then to a low, rumbling growl. The sound of it reverberates over Hannibal's senses, sending a shiver down his spine and a spike of warmth to burn hotter under his skin.

Will's hands upon his skin are thrilling and Hannibal takes in his own way. He breathes in Will's scent deeply and touches over his back, the power in his shoulders, his nails digging into wet skin. Were he able to claw this man open and reside within him, he would. In a way they have already done so, have already carved themselves open for sacrifice. Hannibal lets the reality weigh upon him, feeling its comfortable warmth, and when Will pulls his head up by his hair, the kiss they share is not entirely chaste.

Instinct paws at Hannibal like a particularly annoying animal, making him aware of the seemingly ever-present ache within his body. Just as Will wishes to mount and knot, Hannibal aches to drop to his knees, to present, to feel Will's teeth in his skin. He doesn't. Instead he channels those desires into the kiss, his own fingers winding in Will's hair and tugging as Hannibal _takes_. He licks deeply into Will's mouth, chasing the distant taste of blood and what must be the remnants of his own slick. Hannibal's moan is soft, barely a breath, and when he does break the kiss, it's due to a singular desire that he can't shake.

He frees himself of Will's hands in his hair only to settle his hands on Will's hips. Then, not daring to look away from Will's eyes, Hannibal drops to one knee in the tub, then the other. Yet instead of leaning in to taste - as would be expected - Hannibal presses his cheek to Will's hip. He doesn't break eye contact. 

"I am. Just as you are _mine_. My Alpha, my _mate_. My protector, or so some would say. Perhaps it is time that we share that responsibility," Hannibal murmurs. 

Then, quite blatantly, he turns his head and leans in, licking a slow, broad stripe over the angry grin carved into Will's abdomen. 

* * *

Will may be an Alpha - may be _Hannibal's_ Alpha even - but Hannibal is technically still stronger than him. Not all Omegas are passive or weaker, after all. That's just perpetuated stereotypes. Hannibal could fight him off, could change their positions if Hannibal wanted. But Hannibal doesn't. And Will enjoys the feel of Hannibal so close to him. Alive and here and kissing him back. It's not tender, it's not slow and he isn't surprised to feel Hannibal trying to lead and take as Hannibal licks into his mouth. Will meets his tongue enthusiastically, but the kiss is broken by Hannibal seconds later.

Will isn't worried by Hannibal pulling away. If Hannibal is putting a stop to something it's because Hannibal wants to do something _else._ Will doesn't need to be in control. He doesn't even _want_ to be in control, at least not 24/7. Because Hannibal getting to his knees, Hannibal's hands on his hips... It's fucking hot. Will's dick thinks so too as it hardens.

But Hannibal isn't opening his mouth to suck it. The side of his face is against Will's hip and Will is gazing down, eyes wide and focused. 

_'My protector, or so some would say. Perhaps it is time that we share that responsibility.'_

Will's not sure about that, about being Hannibal's protector. He'd hurt and betrayed Hannibal -- his mate. Of course Hannibal had betrayed him first, but they hadn't been _bonded._ They hadn't been blurring. Before Will can work out a reply, Hannibal comes to lick at the scar carved onto his abdomen.

_Oh._

It whispers of intimacy but screams of apology -- of a promise of going _forward._ Hannibal had attacked and left him, but he isn't going to do that again. The past is in the past, all they have is the now. 

Will's hands twitch uselessly at his sides. His heart aches as Hannibal's tongue licks across the scar, some areas sensitive, others not so much. Will takes in shuddering breaths. A part of him wants to wrench Hannibal away from his vulnerability, yet another part wants to reach and tangle his fingers into wet hair and rub Hannibal's mouth and cheek and tongue and teeth over the grin. 

"Fuck," Will hisses and his hands can't resist. They grip into Hannibal's hair. "The responsibility is ours to share now." He presses Hannibal's mouth against his scar, smearing his lips along it. "You've bitten me, been inside me, cut me open... What's next?"

* * *

Will's skin tastes of salt and warm water and the faintest tang of iron from a wound so recently healed. Hannibal licks over the long line of his scar and not even he knows his true goal - his emotions whirling and feral in his mind - until he looks up at Will and sees the wide-eyed look of trust and hope in his eyes. Then he understands and the emotions crash down around him. He drops his gaze briefly to the raised scar on Will's skin, to the angry pink of it. It is healed, but the scar is tight and likely still sensitive in places. Hannibal aches to heal it, to both wipe the evidence of his rage away as well as showcase it as his mark upon Will's skin. As he looks back up at Will and takes note of the expression on his face, Hannibal knows that this is an apology. 

His instincts have been crying out to him to make _sure_ that Will is all right for months. Now, in this unguarded moment of intimacy, when his mind is more rational and not yet clouded by Heat, he can do this. He isn't even irritated at his instincts this time, as for once they agree. He listens to Will's shuddering breaths as he licks along the skin, breathing in the heady scent of Will's arousal but deeming this more important. 

Will's fingers eventually grip into his hair. The sensation makes heat race down Hannibal's spine and he doesn't resist as Will's hand guides him. He listens, never breaking eye contact, and he lets Will move his lips over the scar, blatant, almost violent, and Hannibal feels the ache of Heat begin to claw at him again. 

He shudders, breathing a soft moan as Will's actions - as his words - all but drip with acceptance, with understanding. He strokes Will's hips with his thumbs, mouths openly at the scar, and when Will allows him time to respond, Hannibal looks back up at him with heat and affection blazing in his eyes.

"There is no 'next' for us. Not separately. Everything I did, I did as myself. Now..." Hannibal's lips press against Will's scar again, his stubble scratching over the skin like a prayer. "Now it will be as _us_. As it should be."

He drags in a deep breath of Will's scent and then allows one of his hands to drop down to where Will's cock is filling out again, likely hard at both the sight of him and the scent of the Heat still on Hannibal's skin. Hannibal wraps his fingers loosely around it, pressing against the slightly-looser skin around the base that will fill out into Will's knot. He kisses Will's stomach, dragging his teeth gently over the line of his scar, but he does little more than touch, than explore in this moment that he _can_. 

"There is much to discuss, much to solidify once we are both able. For right now, I wish only to know you, to _have_ you. To taste, to touch, to _know_."

* * *

Hannibal could snarl as Will grabs his hair and seeks to direct the touch.

But he doesn't.

Eyes peer up at him as Will drags Hannibal's dangerous mouth across skin that is vulnerable. Will has no doubt that Hannibal's teeth could easily tear a man open. (Will knows there is a bit of ferocity inside of him, too. What terrible trouble shall they get into going forward?) 

It's an Omegan instinct to want to nurture. Will knows that it hadn't been _easy_ for Hannibal to maim him and kill Abigail. Will is certain he saw the evidence of tears on Hannibal's face. Hannibal hadn't wanted to break their makeshift family, he hadn't delighted in causing such destruction. He'd been hurt and sought to hurt in return. Will understands, even though understanding doesn't make the pain go away. He can imagine the torment that followed Hannibal after taking such actions. 

Thumbs rub against his hips as he draws Hannibal's mouth across the smile. Will has already said the words. He doesn't need to offer his forgiveness again. He's quiet as Hannibal answers. He has to strain a little to hear, the water from the shower making it difficult but he manages. 

There will be no separation. Just them. Two bodies, two souls, two minds, swirling and mixing and latching onto each other. The future is a daunting prospect, a blank canvas for them, but Will is excited. For the first time, he won't be alone. He doesn't imagine it will be easy (for when has that ever been the case?) but nothing worthwhile is ever easy.

A somewhat-strangled cry is pulled out of him when, without warning, one of Hannibal's hands drops to his cock and wraps around the base. Will's hips jut forward a little but, seeking friction, attention -- anything. Hannibal presses a kiss to his scar, skimming his teeth along it and it has Will's dick hardening rapidly. It's rather troublesome to remain as he is, to let Hannibal do as he pleases. Will wants to take, to do, to act, anything other than standing and letting Hannibal have his own way.

"Come on, don't tease, it's difficult enough as it is with you smelling like you do," Will growls. "Let's finish showering and go back to bed."

* * *

Hannibal is still a sadist at heart, though before Will, it had never taken a sexual aspect. Like this, now, listening to the beautiful cry rend the air as Hannibal teases in a manner some might call cruel, he watches Will, notes the flush to his skin, and he breathes in the headiness of his scent. Much as Will is basking in and tempted by Hannibal's scent, so too is Hannibal tempted by his. It is low and rich and _Will_ , cedar and spice and citrus all brought together by a low, heady musk that he aches to bury his face against. He doesn't, though only because his sadism will not go quite so far right now. That he is a sadist goes against his nature, but as he leads Will in an agonizing tease, heat flaring at the clear desperation in Will's body, he cannot truly care. The desire to simply take Will into his mouth - to chase the remnants of his taste - is almost overwhelming. 

He keeps himself in check, though only just. When Will growls, his voice breathless and thick with his own arousal, Hannibal looks up at him. There is a side of him that wishes to stay like this, to tease, to _learn_... but Will's growl prickles over his senses and settles him, like a cooling balm on a burn. Hannibal breathes in his scent one final time, drags his lips over Will's scar once more. Then, finally, he nods, though there is a note of regret and control in the sigh he lets out.

"You are not alone in that frustration," he says lowly. Then, with Will's help, Hannibal gets up off of his knees, aware that it's quite likely they will be bruised later from all the time spent on them. 

Feeling the prickle of arousal deep within, an alien ache that he fears will take precedence over the more familiar ache in his cock, Hannibal does heed Will's request. They don't have the luxury of an abundance of time before Hannibal's body once more demands satiation. So, with Will's help, and giving his own in return, they go back to showering. Will is almost impossibly gentle when he helps clean the sweat, dirt, come, and slick from Hannibal's skin, and Hannibal is likewise gentle when he asks to wash Will's hair for him. It is a slower, somewhat sensual experience, and as he indulges and breathes in Will's scent whenever he's able to, the weight of the knowledge that Will is _here_ keeps flooring him. 

While he cleans, he also touches, stroking his hands over Will's back, familiarizing himself with the warmth of his skin, and Hannibal blatantly mouths at the faded scar on Will's neck. He's fairly sure he can feel Will admiring his own - both of them - and when Hannibal finally shuts the water off, the burn of his Heat is beginning to trickle warmly into his limbs once more. Not much time, then.

He leads the way out and offers Will a towel before wrapping himself in one that is likely overly-soft. Now that he thinks about it, his purchases over the last few days have been more indulgent than usual: softer fabrics and silks and bedding. Comfort articles for an Omega on a good day, but necessary for one in Heat. That he hadn't noticed once again burns through him, but he still leads the way back into the bedroom, and once there, he turns to Will.

Hannibal reaches out to him and - before Will can suggest anything - Hannibal leans in and presses a quick, biting kiss just under his jaw. 

"Would you let me have you again?"

* * *

Oh, Will is certain that Hannibal loves teasing him right now. Will would probably like it if their positions were reversed. He can admit it. Having a partner keening into your touch, hearing their desperation -- it's fucking hot. Always has been. But right now, with Hannibal in his fucking Heat, it's borderline cruel for Hannibal to tease like he is. When Will looks down after complaining, Hannibal looks like he's considering. For a serious moment, Will thinks Hannibal might deny him, that Hannibal might continue to tease.

After a brief brush against his scar with his mouth, Hannibal replies and Will helps him up. It's back to focusing on the practical matter at hand: showering for the purpose of getting clean. There's dirt, come and slick to clean off of Hannibal, but Will is careful and attentive. He doesn't rush, nor does he go slow. They take turns and Will finds it oddly relaxing to allow Hannibal to wash his hair. He hadn't ever thought it would be something he'd like... Now, faced with the reality of choosing Hannibal, it could very likely happen again.

They could shower with each other again. Hannibal could get on his knees and tease him. Will could wash Hannibal. They could take time to learn and relish in each other's body. It's a lot to take in. Will doesn't know if it's really sunk in yet, too. (Christ, they're really doing this.)

Once finished, they exit the shower and Hannibal hands him a towel. Will begins to dry himself off, seeing no reason to wrap himself in it, unlike Hannibal. He's mostly dried when they return to the bedroom. 

And then Hannibal is stepping in close to him and giving him a kiss.

And then asking him a question that has Will more than a little incredulous. His face likely shows it. A moment later, he schools his expression away. If this wasn't about a Heat, he'd have been less surprised. He's already allowed Hannibal to fuck him once already. Will had known it wasn't going to be a one-time thing either. Hannibal - an Omega - has been fucking for his whole life. Hannibal doesn't like bottoming. Will isn't even certain that Hannibal would let himself be fucked again after this Heat either. What Will is certain of is that Hannibal is going to adjust his suppressants and not be controlled by hormones ever again.

"A little unorthodox, but when has that ever stopped you, huh?" Will asks, a grin coming to his face. "Yeah, I'll let you." 

With permission given, he drops the towel to the floor and climbs onto the bed.

This time he's on his back, spreading his legs willingly and knowing that they're going to make eye contact when this happens. His cock has already begun to harden. So sue him. It's intimacy. It's Hannibal. It's his mate. It hadn't felt _bad_ last time either. He's into this. 

* * *

Hannibal is quite aware of just how unorthodox his request is when he poses it to Will, but not even the crush of his growing hormones, his Heat, can change the way that Hannibal feels dizzy with desire at the mere scent of Will so close. While his body has begun to ache gently for satisfaction again, while Hannibal can feel the burn of Heat along his skin, he is not yet so far gone that he can ignore how heady Will's scent is this close. While his skin is warm and smells fresh from the shower, the lingering musk of Will's arousal is like a sweet wine between them, something that Hannibal _wants_ , something he would happily bury himself in if permitted.

The look on Will's face says it all. He's quite shocked, perhaps incredulous, and it makes sense. Hannibal is asking for something practically unheard of in other circles. Had any other Omega attempted to penetrate their Alpha - _any_ Alpha - during their Heat, they would surely have been shoved to the floor and made to listen, or at least denied with heavy prejudice. Yet instead of doing the same to Hannibal, Will only looks shocked. Then he looks thoughtful. Finally, after what feels like an eternity to the arousal curling like smoke through Hannibal's body, he looks agreeable. 

Heat of a different sort curls through Hannibal when Will climbs upon the bed. It strikes him, quite suddenly, that _this_ is where they will sleep, together. The thought aches pleasantly and Hannibal swallows past an odd thickness in his throat. He watches, quietly awed, as Will climbs upon the bed and then lays back, positioning himself in an inviting lounge that Hannibal wishes to nearly devour. The scar upon his stomach is far more blatant like this and the urge to care, to kiss, to lick, is almost overwhelming. Thankfully Hannibal dismisses it, and it is with a quiet sense of peace that he finally eases up and joins Will on the bed.

His touch lands on Will's ankle first, sliding slowly up his bare leg. The hair there curls wetly and softly over Hannibal's fingers, and he aches to lick, to kiss. He knows immediately that were his Heat not a looming threat, he would coax Will up onto his hands and knees and feast upon him, would lick deeply within his body until his knot formed and twitched with desperation. The very thought has Hannibal's cock filling out blatantly, but he mustn't allow himself this distraction. 

Instead he gently nudges Will's legs apart, gazing down at him with unbridled affection clear in his eyes. His hand trails up Will's thigh, gentle, careful. Hannibal hums low in his throat. 

"You look beautiful like this. If only I had the time..." he says lowly, and the heat of promise in his voice speaks for itself.

There is no lubricant here but given how Hannibal feels, given the arousal burning low, he doesn't need it. Instead he reaches back, and it takes very little time to gather the slick waiting at his own hole on one finger. The thought of what he is about to do soon has his finger coated, and when he leans over Will and rubs slowly at his hole, breathes in his scent blatantly, and kisses him. 

He eases the finger in slowly, judging Will's response, and there is no preamble as he curls his finger for a delicate stroke. They do not have the time, and Hannibal does not have the patience.

* * *

No other Alpha - mated or not - would allow this. Allowing an Omega who's going through their Heat - smelling so divine and aching to be filled and knotted - to fucking top an Alpha. It's ludicrous, and yet here Will finds himself on his back and reaching for a pillow to stuff under his head. His legs are spread for Hannibal.

Will's cock is still hard. He knows that it can be pretty good. He knows that it will start off awkward and uncomfortable. Will can remember the sensation of probing fingers steadily working to open him so that his body could take Hannibal's dick. (And Hannibal may be an Omega, but Hannibal's dick is not lacking in the size department.)

But this is Hannibal. His mate. The man who had unbuttoned his shirt and let Will bite him, had let himself become bonded even while knowing Will could have betrayed him. 

And they've both hurt each other, both betrayed one another. Through all the pain and violence, teeth bloody and mouths hungry, there exists a love. It's love that allows Will to have his legs spread for Hannibal, to know that even with the presence of Hannibal's Heat, the smell of copious amounts of slick leaking, that he is going to try his best to do whatever Hannibal requests.

Because love is about compromise. 

He can see Hannibal's hunger, Hannibal's desire to touch and learn him properly. The first time they'd fucked, it had been frenzied. Frenzied in a different way than their most recent foray. One day, Will does want them to be able to take their time. For them both to be indulgent and thorough in touch and exploration. Today is not that day.

Hannibal joins him on the bed, a hand lightly touching up his thigh and Will only licks his lips, not quite supplicant, but still willing and consenting for this. 

This time, he's not shocked as Hannibal reaches around to use slick as lube. There should be ample amounts available. Still, the smell has his nostrils flaring and a small frisson of frustrated desire shoots through him. Will doesn't get up. He doesn't stop this and attempt to turn the tables. He waits.

Soon enough, Hannibal is leaning over and kissing him as one finger is worked inside of him. It's still strange, still uncomfortable, but Will forces himself to not tense. And as Hannibal's finger curls and expertly strokes against his prostate, Will shudders. He bites Hannibal's lip purposefully, but it's a reward and not a reprimand. 

The stretching isn't done overly slow, but nor is it rushed. Will is mindful to not tense as Hannibal eases his finger inside and fluidly pumps it in, occasionally brushing against his prostate for good measure, and when he begins to relax, another is added. Will's eyes are closed as he lets the sensation and smell of Hannibal fill his senses. 

* * *

Hannibal wets his lips as he watches the way that Will's body allows him inside of him, his first finger curling and Hannibal delighting in Will's quiet responses. His muscles clench and twitch so perfectly, his heat and tightness absolute. Hannibal _has_ only been inside of this man once before, and the aching tightness around his finger is proof enough that there have been no others. The thought sends a further rush of heat through him, hot and damning and making him ache even more to simply drop back down onto his elbows and let Will _take._

But that isn't what he wants right now. Hannibal wants to feel this man, to know him intimately in a way that is familiar. As Will's body begins to relax around his finger, Hannibal withdraws the first, gathers more slick on two, and begins again.

The sweet scent of his own arousal is almost overpowering in the room but Hannibal's senses have narrowed in on Will's scent, on the sight of him. He presses in with two fingers and begins, watching Will raptly as sensation crawls down his spine, as his hole tightens and clenches whenever Hannibal's fingers give him more. Hannibal's gaze is dark with arousal, and when he finally speaks, it's low and hot. 

"One day I will take my time with you, like this," Hannibal says, less a direct statement and perhaps more a personal note of hunger. "I will work you open slowly. Perhaps, if you'll permit, I'll indulge myself and taste you. Were we not in a rush now..."

Hannibal trails off, and it isn't long after that that his impatience begins to show. He still doesn't rush, doesn't attempt to push Will more than he's able. Yet as he presses a third finger inside of Will's body, his lip stinging pleasantly from Will's bite, he kisses him deep enough to leave himself breathless with it. Hannibal shudders, careful, his fingers curling and pumping slowly into Will's tight, blissful heat. He can feel slick dripping down his thigh, merely a drop or two but it is enough to firmly showcase his own arousal as Heat slides in and begins to grip its claws back into him.

It means that when Will seems ready, there is plenty of slick for Hannibal to coat his hand with. Working Will into position - a pillow beneath his hips - Hannibal reluctantly withdraws his fingers and in moments he has his hand wrapped around his cock, slicking it thoroughly.

There are high spots of color on Hannibal's cheeks, arousal sparking his Heat further; he can feel it looming, almost choking him with need, yet he doesn't dismiss this endeavor. Instead Hannibal leans down over Will and kisses him, at first slow and then somewhat biting. He lines himself up, shuddering at the sensation of Will's endless heat against the tip of his cock. 

"Deep, slow breaths," Hannibal instructs, peppering quick, biting kisses along Will's jaw, his throat. This close, Will's scent is heady and strong and Hannibal half-buries his face into it as he damns his instincts, braces a hand around himself, and begins to press inside slowly. The heat alone is remarkable and Hannibal's breath hitches, but he does not rush. He remains slow and careful.

* * *

Will figures that Hannibal wants to fuck him because it's far more familiar for Hannibal compared to what they had done underneath the church. Hannibal wants some measure of control back and Will can't fault him that. Will would be pissed if his body had surprised him then forced him to behave in a way that he'd normally fought so hard against. As much as Will had thoroughly enjoyed Hannibal's Heat, to be able to lick and taste, to fuck and knot inside Hannibal, Will doesn't want their coupling to be a point of contention -- for Hannibal to later regret or be bitter about how things had happened.

Maybe Hannibal will never bottom again once the suppressants are tweaked and working properly. They haven't worked out the details, they haven't had time to talk about much of anything really... And as absurd as it sounds, if the only option is letting Hannibal fuck him, Will knows he would do it. Hannibal is his mate. He intimately knows what _alone_ and _abandoned_ feel like and Will doesn't plan on ever finding himself in such a position again.

So even though he can smell and so easily recall the taste of Hannibal's heat-infused slick, Will lets himself be exposed and willing as skilled fingers work him open. He doesn't try to tense and resist but every so often Will can feel his hole spasm as Hannibal's fingers push or curl a certain way. It's intense and maddening, the urge to fight and flip over Hannibal rears its head, but why should anything be overly predictable and uncomplicated with Hannibal?

He's rewarded with Hannibal voicing his hunger to, one day, take his time, to taste him. Such an intimate desire makes Will's cock ache because he can see it happening, he can imagine how thorough and exacting Hannibal would be. By the time fingers retract Will is rather worked up. He's panting, cock swollen and red; the desire to fuck Hannibal doesn't abate after another pillow is positioned under his hips and Hannibal coats his cock with ample slick. 

This is cruel, the smell of honeyed slick taunting him as Hannibal leans down and kisses him. Everything in Will's body screams to turn this situation around, but Will simply clenches his fists and drinks in the sight of a messy and desperate Hannibal (it's a gorgeous sight). 

Will does take deeper slow breaths as Hannibal is careful to push inside. It still feels weird, it still feels wrong, but Will takes it. He hisses out a curse as Hannibal eases himself inside, the stretch still somewhat intense, the feeling of fullness odd, but it's not bad. Will's hands unclench as he chooses to instead reach up and brush his fingers through Hannibal's shower-damp hair.

"Love you... even though you're a dick to ask me to do this," Will murmurs, fondness creeping into his voice. He can't help it.

* * *

Hannibal's Heat is but an irritating gnat in the back of his mind, buzzing and fussing about in a way that will become quite irksome in time but is hardly important now. _Now_ Hannibal feels nearly blown away by the reality of what is happening. He feels the tight, gripping heat of Will's body as he slowly sinks into Will's hole, feeling his own slick wrap around him to ease the entry. The first and only night they had done this had been indescribable, both due to pleasure and hope and the looming betrayal on the horizon. Yet now, months later, Will bearing the scars of said betrayal, the both of them down a daughter and half a world away, the intensity is even sharper. 

_Now_ there is no lingering doubt in mind. Now they have each other. Now there is no chance for the two of them to separate or rend or betray. Will had sought him out, and Hannibal had left his trail - two desperate creatures aching and hoping even though they'd known they shouldn't.

So the tight heat around Hannibal's cock is the final proof he needs. Even during his Heat, even during the moment that Will's instincts have to be snarling at him the loudest, Will has chosen him. He _is_ choosing him, choosing Hannibal's pleasure, his decision, and the thought sends heat of a different sort racing through him. 

Hannibal can feel sweat beading upon his skin, the scent sweeter as slick drips down the backs of his thighs. Like the sensation of pleasure has suddenly reminded his body what he _truly_ needs, Hannibal feels the restlessness within, feels the need spike, but he shoves it away. 

He only has thoughts for Will, for his own heat, for the perfect sensation around his cock as he finally presses in deep and bottoms out. Hannibal's gasp is light and hitched and when he looks up and meets Will's eyes, the fondness he sees in Will's gaze threatens to tear him to ruins.

"I am... amazed that you are allowing this," he confesses, stilling himself to allow Will time to adjust. "If I had residual doubts over your love, this has shattered them." 

As Hannibal speaks he is not idle, peppering kisses over Will's jaw, scraping his teeth over his throat, over the light scar upon Will's neck. Need pulses like fire within him but Hannibal doesn't rush. Instead he waits until the searing vice-like grip around his cock seems more manageable. Only then does he slowly roll his hips, testing Will's tolerance. And when he can, when Will's body allows it despite the pressure that must be clawing at him, Hannibal's groan is low and filled with need.

He draws back and thrusts back in, slower and careful at first, but it is not only Will's need that Hannibal is fighting against. His own feels like a restless energy underneath his skin. So perhaps he angles his hips a little too soon. Perhaps he grinds up against Will's prostate as soon as he can, aching to give his mate pleasure, if just to distract him from the insistent need in his own chest.

* * *

Even though he's done this once before with Hannibal, it's still overwhelming and unfamiliar to willingly be at Hannibal's mercy. Of course, Hannibal is not reckless with this gift. Hannibal is not cruel or rushed. The tenderness is almost too much for Will. Hannibal's muscles quiver as he advances slowly inch by inch and resists the urge to take forcefully. It's a delightful myriad of sensations that coalesce within Will as Hannibal's cock comes to fit inside him snug. Fullness. Heat. Pressure. Frustration. Restlessness. Urgency. A delicious strain. Intimacy. _Love._

And Hannibal _is_ cruel for asking this of him, but it's just so damn Hannibal that Will thinks he could one day fucking laugh at the audacity of Hannibal fucking _him_ while being in a Heat.

_'If I had residual doubts over your love, this has shattered them.'_

Will has the crushing realization that he doesn't doubt Hannibal either. He doesn't doubt himself in this. It may be absurd to be running away and committing to this - to _them_ \- but the sheer rightness is irrefutable at this point. If they can embrace after everything, if there is still _love_ and _want_ and _need_ despite the betrayals and violence, there is something worth committing too.

(There's hope.)

He says nothing, but Will's receptive to Hannibal's kisses, pushing into them and groaning softly. When he relaxes Hannibal finally moves, simply rolling his hips and it has Will shuddering. He's given slow, measured thrusts that feel like the air is being slowly siphoned out of his lungs. And then it's a rush of oxygen as he gasps after Hannibal shifts and his cock head presses insistently against his prostate. Will's eyes flutter with indecision, unsure if he wants to close his eyes or widen them.

Will's hands slide down to cup Hannibal's face and he holds, gazing up. "Hey, focus on me," Will urges. He senses that Hannibal is losing himself a little, his Heat snarling for attention and Will can relate. 

"I want you to do something for me," Will begins. "I want you to lay down on your back. I want to ride you. Can we try that?"

* * *

The Heat is a low gnawing in Hannibal's belly, a persistent reminder that he is not doing what instinct demands. For now the urges are simple enough to fight, though it is becoming more difficult as the seconds tick by. Perhaps his body senses that he is turning his back on instinct, or perhaps it is simply that Hannibal is feeling enough pleasure to remind himself that there are other types of indulgence. Whatever the reason, he feels his Heat starting to burn, feels the whines bunch behind his throat that he refuses to let out, for even in the grips of Heat, he is not so meek. 

He combats it with the rolls of his hips, by the careful, then slightly more involved thrusts into Will's tight heat. Hannibal shudders, a different fire stoked at the sound of Will's groans, by the way he arches into each kiss and his body opens for Hannibal despite everything. 

It is thrilling and humbling in equal measure and Hannibal moves, chasing his own pleasure but also focusing on Will's. For as he looks down at Will, as he sees the way his eyes threaten to both close and widen, and as he feels the tightness of Will's body increase around his cock, Hannibal knows he's found the proper angle. Will Graham is _radiant_ in his pleasure - something that Hannibal breathes quietly - and his focus redoubles.

He doesn't realize that he's shaking with the effort and burning with Heat until Will's hands move down from his hair to instead cup his face. Will's hands feel cooler - proof of the Heat's influence - and it takes Hannibal a moment to focus once more. Breathing harder, he blinks and his thrusts slow to a gradual stop as he focuses on Will's suggestion. While he can't see the immediate need, Hannibal can understand instincts pushing Will as violently as they are pushing him.

"Yes," he breathes, and then swallows, doing what he can to recollect himself. "Yes, of course."

Hannibal does. While he is careful as he slowly draws out of Will's body, there is a restless eagerness that overtakes him as he shifts over, turning onto his back. Immediately Hannibal can feel his slick being absorbed into the sheets. He still reaches a hand down to coat his cock once more, mindful of Will's tolerance and his comfort. Yet when Will begins to move - begins to loom over him - Hannibal feels satisfaction and arousal call loudly from within. Arousal because Will truly is beautiful like this, and satisfaction for Will above him - in some way - is apparently what his instincts want. Hannibal shivers. 

"Go slow," he cautions.

* * *

Will isn't exactly thinking about whether or not it will be possible for Hannibal to orgasm and feel satisfied with this type of sex. It's a concerned thought that's flitted through this head, but he's not about to bring it up. He does think having some more control could possibly ease a bit of the instinctual desire within them both. It's not only Hannibal struggling, after all. It's not just a desire to be filled, it's not just the sexual hunger to be fucked and knotted. There is a psychological component that Will is beginning to understand more of. It's more than just sex and genitals. There is a real instinctual drive to submit and be underneath Will in some way, just like there is an answering want for Will to be taking care of Hannibal -- his Omega and mate. 

There is a risk Hannibal could say no and not like Will attempting to - with permission - have more control in this. It takes a few seconds for Hannibal to even be able to focus on him and his words, on the suggestion. But an answer does come, and it's a yes. Relief shoots through Will. While it won't be him fucking Hannibal, he'll have some power. 

The feeling of Hannibal pulling out and _not_ pushing back in is disconcerting. Will is still hard, still aroused, but as they change positions and Will sees Hannibal settle on his back, he feels such a visceral rush it almost throws him off balance as he gets to his knees. He's then assaulted by the sight and smell of Hannibal reaching between his legs to gather up more slick and coat his dick. Will makes quick work of coming to climb over Hannibal and straddle him. It feels closer to _right_ and Will's nerves have begun to settle a bit from this one adjustment. He reaches a hand between his legs to hold Hannibal's cock still, his other hand coming to grasp onto Hannibal's shoulder for support. 

And then Will bears down carefully. He holds his breath as he goes slow, spearing himself on Hannibal's waiting dick. It's a different angle, a different feeling being responsible for this, but Will likes it. When Hannibal's cock is nearly halfway inside, his hand lets go and he reaches around to hold onto Hannibal's shoulder. The stretch is not as uncomfortable this time and as Will bottoms out, he groans.

He comes to rest on Hannibal, in no hurry to start moving just yet. Will leans over, gazing at Hannibal, his cheeks flushed, his hair a beautiful mess. 

"Smile for me," Will blurts out. Hannibal has, of course, smiled before, but they were smiles that spoke of private jokes and hidden thoughts...

* * *

There is hardly a few seconds between Hannibal laying on his back and Will moving to straddle his hips, and the sight is breathtaking. Not only does it calm Hannibal on an instinctual level (regardless of how little he wants it to) but it rushes in to strike him low as Will sets a hand on his shoulder. Once more Hannibal is left stunned by the realization that Will is here, that he has chosen him. It had not been a guarantee even that morning, but as Hannibal watches Will settle atop him, and as his breath catches when Will reaches a hand back to wrap around Hannibal's cock, he feels settled in a way that is difficult to truly put into words right now. 

Yes, his Heat is beginning to burn hotter within his skin, and yes, he can feel the ache deep inside once more, but none of that matters as Hannibal looks up at Will, his mate. How close he'd come to losing him for good. Hannibal's gaze briefly drops to the angry scarring on Will's stomach and he makes a mental note to properly pay the scar attention when Heat is not drawing his focus away.

Then Will is moving, his weight a heavy, settling one on Hannibal's hips, and the sudden heat of his body robs Hannibal of breath. He tips his head back against the pillow with a low, breathless groan. Hannibal's hands move out, sliding over Will's thighs and learning their shape as quickly as he can. When he sets his hands on Will's hips, it is not to brace him, nor slow him. It is merely to touch, to feel the connection as Will sinks down on him, taking Hannibal's own heat deep within himself. Hannibal watches, quietly awed, and when Will finally takes the rest of his cock within his body, Hannibal breathes a sound that might have once been a curse. 

He flinches with the pleasure of it as Will leans over him, and then cannot help but look up at him, stunned by the wild beauty of his mate. _Mate_... a thrilling word. One that Hannibal intends to reflect on. He wets his lips, but when Will makes his sudden request, it is so unexpected that Hannibal merely blinks up at him.

At first he doesn't understand, a light furrow creasing his brow. Then, looking at the need in Will's eyes, Hannibal thinks back and it takes him very little time to realize what Will is asking him, and _why_. The look in Hannibal's eyes softens, and he slides one hand up to cup Will's cheek, stroking his thumb over Will's stubble. And, when he allows himself to smile, it is the first of its kind. 

No deception, no games, no secrets, just a soft joy at having Will _here_. 

"And will you return the favor?"

* * *

This position is undoubtedly better. It may not be _him_ fucking into Hannibal, but he's overtop Hannibal and taking Hannibal's cock on _his_ terms. Will's instincts seem slightly more placated and he assumes Hannibal feels some relief like this too. He's full of Hannibal and Will finds the intensity pleasurable. It has him grounded and fully engaged. Will's mind can't drift, for it's completely zeroed in on Hannibal.

By him asking, Will is admitting that he's aware of Hannibal's more disingenuous smiles. A few that he's personally not witnessed, he can easily imagine. Polite, courteous smiles. Sly smiles when Hannibal had delivered a joke that only he could understand. Smiles meant to disarm, to charm. A satisfied smile when Will had almost killed Ingram...

At first Hannibal seems slightly bewildered by his request, but quickly enough recognition smooths over his features. And then a genuine smile blooms on Hannibal's and it's _beautiful._ It's only for him and Will feels himself shudder at the gravity of such a sight. Their masks both have been removed and all Will can do is return the favor, his face breaking out into a smile that would feel exposing, but doesn't because Hannibal is right here with him.

He can't resist leaning down and connecting their mouths in a deep kiss. _Right_ and _finally_ streak through him. 

"Fuck," Will gasps as he pulls away and with Hannibal's help, he straightens up, his hands coming to flatten against Hannibal's chest to support himself. "I know it might be difficult to come like this, but I want you to, Hannibal," Will growls as he begins to roll his hips and test out this position. 

"I'm going to keep riding you until you come inside of me." 

With that said Will lifts himself off and begins fucking himself on Hannibal's dick, slowly at first then picking up the pace. The exertion feels good, his muscles straining in his legs and finding enjoyment in the physicality of this moment.

* * *

Had Hannibal's anger gotten the better of him, he could have lost this without even having it. The night he'd spent with Will - both of their bites bleeding and fresh - had been good. But it hadn't been _this_. Not even the Heat running through Hannibal's body can truly disguise the pleasure he feels, not only at having Will's body wrapped so tightly around him, but at having Will here. Hannibal quietly basks in the answering smile that slides onto Will's face - genuine and endearingly unpracticed - and when Will leans down to kiss him, Hannibal is already moving to do the same. Had he not, Hannibal is sure that he would have pulled Will down to taste his lips again.

The kiss is deep and _right_. It slides desperate fingers through him, whispers of promise that ease in through the cracks in Hannibal's mind and wrap tightly around his heart. He feels the ache, feels the sudden rush of ferocity that is typically not befitting of an Omega, and he knows that Hell and Earth will have to converge and destroy before he ever allows anyone - or anything - to take this man from him again. 

Hannibal's fingers wind into Will's hair as they kiss, and when Will draws back and slowly rights himself upon Hannibal's lap, Hannibal moves his hands in a slow slide down to stroke along Will's hips. 

Will's words - that he wants Hannibal to come like this - are like a fire deep in his chest. Hannibal's lip curls - a hint of a would-be snarl of need, of effort - and then he draws in a deep, hissed breath as Will rolls his hips. The sensation is exquisite and settling. It is a tight, gripping heat and Will's weight pinning him down at once. Hannibal arches under him, cock throbbing, slick undoubtedly staining the sheets already, and he nods, tightly. The additional threat (promise, Hannibal thinks) that Will won't stop until he does is enough to make that whine in his chest threaten to spill out. Still he controls himself, but only just. Hannibal wets his lips and - when Will begins to move properly - he gasps his pleasure, grips Will's hips tighter, and takes time to match his rhythm.

When Hannibal finds it, the pleasure is thrilling. No, it's not what his body _needs_ , but it's what he _wants_. Will is correct; it will be difficult for him to come like this, but as Will picks up the pace, his muscles are strong - instinctively showing Hannibal that he is a worthy mate. The _sight_ of him is what truly makes the difference, though. Hannibal gazes up at Will, at the deep flush to his face, the darkness of his blown pupils and the lovely, wild mess of his hair. 

No other Alpha would permit this. As good as it might feel for them, the loss of power - of control - would be damning. Yet as Hannibal watches Will move, as he feels each quick roll of his hips, feels the slick tightness wrapped around his cock like heated, wet silk, Will looks rapt. It is intense on a whole new level. 

Hannibal rolls his hips up in a sharp counterpoint to Will's, chasing the pleasure so freely offered. It takes time for him to feel the first signs of sharp pleasure, and while his body's ache deepens to a point where Hannibal needs to grip Will's hips harder to stay grounded, he can feel the desperation mounting. His next thrust is slightly off, hastened by need, and Hannibal shudders, groaning low under his breath. 

"Will, please," he hisses. "Kiss me. Bite me. Use your nails. Something... something more, please."

* * *

Instincts dictate that Hannibal's body needs (or thinks it needs) to submit to an Alpha. Instincts dictate that Will needs to mount Hannibal in any way possible and fuck him -- to _provide_ what's needed. While he is over top of Hannibal this is still somewhat of a bastardization. 

It's pleasurable, but it's also maddening. Hannibal isn't passive in this, no, his hips snap upward and occasional thrusts do glance against Will's prostate. Will's panted breathing is interrupted only by groans. His muscles strain as he rides Hannibal, lifting off Hannibal's cock to only drop back on it and repeat the motion.

Hannibal looks beautiful in his fierce desperation, stubbornly refusing to give into what is expected of them -- Will is right there with him. When Hannibal's hands grip tight along his hips, Will only just holds back a growl. The demand to fuck, to come, to knot is furiously trying to claw its way out but Will resists. Sweat mixes with slick and Will's eyes are wide and watching Hannibal. He's not avoiding eyes now. He couldn't look away if he tried.

When Hannibal's plea sounds, Will shudders along with Hannibal. He can see need etched in Hannibal's features, he can hear it in his mate's tone. One of Will's hands comes to reach over Hannibal to grasp the headboard to steady himself. His other pries Hannibal's closest hand off his hip, grasping onto his wrist. Will lifts Hannibal's inner forearm up, rubbing against thin scars that are his by proxy. He grinds down against Hannibal before kissing reverently at the raised scar tissue. He then digs his nails into Hannibal's arm before he bites around the scar and begins moving again, his eyes never leaving Hannibal's.

* * *

Desperation burns like fire under Hannibal's skin, but he knows with the certainty that only a mated pair shares that Will is going to help. Heat is infuriating as Hannibal _knows_ himself at any other point in time. Never have his reactions and his desires been such a mystery to him, and never have his instincts so desperately insisted that another person will fulfill them. But they are now. Will is like addiction and power and comfort rolled up into one individual. As Hannibal's desperation grows, so too does Will's fervor. Will rides him with quick, sharp movements, a vision of pleasure and power that Hannibal could bask in forever.

Hannibal doesn't know what he needs Will to do, but when Will moves, when one hand shifts to the headboard and another goes for one of Hannibal's wrists, he knows that _Will_ knows what he needs. And he does. Hannibal grits his teeth, his breaths quick, the snaps of his hips edging around desperate as Will takes what he's given. Then, quite suddenly, Hannibal feels the lips against the thin scars along his wrist. Hannibal's lips part on a deep, awed gasp and he watches, half-shocked, half-reverent, as Will kisses the thick, white scarring. He distantly feels Will grinding down, feels the knife's edge of pleasure, and it's almost enough...

Will's teeth sink into the dangerously sensitive skin of Hannibal's inner wrist, around the scar, and Hannibal's orgasm washes over him with such sudden ferocity that he can't even gasp out a warning. He jerks, head tilting back on the pillow, but never once does he looks away from the intensity of Will's eyes on his own. He tries to bite back a sound - that damnable whine - but a fraction of it still slips out as he grinds up into Will's heat, wracked with an orgasm that Hannibal shouldn't have been able to have like this. It's visceral and desperate, and before the pleasure has even peaked, Hannibal's free hand moves down, blindly seeking out Will's cock so that he can wrap his hand around it - around the base - and squeeze. 

* * *

Underneath Will, Hannibal's skin is hot, his body burning up in the throes of his Heat and Will steadily buns along with him -- twin flames. The skin he can taste is barely salty, the shower having washed most of the sweat away from their romp in the catacombs. Months ago he'd sent Matthew Brown on a mission to kill Hannibal. If Matthew hadn't been interested in talking, in theatrics, Hannibal _would_ have been killed. Will doesn't regret his actions, but he knows how fragile life can be, how the impact of one reckless decision can have lasting consequences. (Abigail had been further proof.)

They will embark on this new life together, casting away their former selves, past ties, their doubt and starting anew.

Hannibal's orgasm is sudden and breathtaking. Will watches, his bite firm -- not forceful enough to draw blood, but still hard enough for Hannibal to feel it, to feel him. Will only blinks when he must, not wanting to miss a single second. The whine is provoking, Will's body tensing as a feral craving rears its unhappy head. He kisses his own bite mark on Hannibal's wrist instead, savoring the feel of Hannibal grinding back into him and shaking, the curious gush of wetness and heat filling him--

Before Will can pull away, Hannibal's free hand is reaching over to his cock. It only takes a second for Will to ascertain what Hannibal is attempting to do. Hannibal wants to squeeze so he can knot and get off. While Will _does_ want to come, he's not going to come like this. Will lets go of Hannibal's wrist and quickly lifts himself off of Hannibal's still-pulsating cock. 

Maybe it's brutish - rude at the very least - and maybe he'll get into shit for this later, but that's for later. Will roughly rolls Hannibal onto his side, one arm coming underneath Hannibal's neck to cradle him as Will scoots in behind to be the big spoon. His other hand comes to cup Hannibal's asscheek and spread him open. He's not especially gentle as he thrusts his aching cock inside Hannibal's welcoming wet hole; he knows Hannibal _needs_ but doesn't want to have to ask again. He would never do this with anyone else, but this is Hannibal, Hannibal who had just fucked him. His mate.

A moan of relief sounds as Will bottoms out, his cock already throbbing and far too close than he'd fucking like right now. Will leans over and kisses along Hannibal's jaw. 

"I'm sorry - just once again - one more time, please," Will begs as he rocks into Hannibal. 

He's not taking no for answer. 

* * *

Hannibal reaches for Will's cock in an attempt to repay the favor, to give Will back some of what Will has given him. He can see the angry, red flush to Will's cock, he knows that he must be aching, so Hannibal strives to fix it. What he's _not_ expecting is the way that his touch provokes an almost visceral reaction from Will. There's a tensing of Will's muscles (that has Hannibal gasping) followed immediately by Will suddenly and roughly pulling himself off of Hannibal's cock. The sensation is sudden and sharp and Hannibal's answering sound holds a shocked sort of desperation as his hips jerk, chasing Will's heat as the final throes of orgasm are slightly interrupted. 

It is due to that fact alone - Hannibal's body still wracked with now-confused pleasure - that he doesn't follow Will's intent. Hannibal twitches, a few drops of come dribbling onto his abdomen as Will suddenly moves him. Hannibal shifts, panting, his body still feeling high-strung, his mind a mix of confusion and frustrated pleasure. He notes Will rolling him onto his side, feels the singularly-comforting feeling of Will's arm moving around him, and then Hannibal understands. A part of him wants to be furious at the audacity but indignation has no place right now. His skin is burning, his body aching for more than what he'd had. 

Will's sudden thrust drives in deep and Hannibal's resulting cry is rough and hoarse and entirely genuine, one of the many sounds he'd repressed in the catacombs. His hands ball into fists - one in the sheets, the other blindly groping for Will's hand. His toes curl in pleasure, his muscles tensing with the unfamiliar urge to _take_ by _being_ taken. 

Hannibal should be angry, should be at least bitter by the fact that Will hadn't asked, but he's not. He feels only intensity and need and relief, and when Will begs, Hannibal blindly gropes back for Will's hip, grabbing at first and then digging his nails into the slick skin. He presses back - answer enough - and shudders, basking in the points of connection, in Will's scent suddenly so close.

" _Yes_ ," Hannibal grinds out, both answer and pleasure as Will rocks into him. It isn't the punishing pace from the catacombs, but it seems to scratch the restless itch just as well. It's a different, deeper pleasure, intense, overshadowing his orgasm with a new need. 

"Take... take what you need," Hannibal growls, turning enough that their lips can almost touch. "What _we_ need, Will. _Please_."

* * *

Will can't ignore his instincts any longer. They howl and snarl for him to properly consummate this moment, to take and give and provide. It's an interesting blend of urges. He'll probably think about it later, how the instinctual drive is _more_ than to fuck and knot, but it's also to provide what the Omega - what his _mate_ \- needs. Will had felt the stirring of wanting to provide for Abigail Hobbs, but he hadn't really been able to see himself as a father. He hadn't been able to understand her -- not because he couldn't, but because he hadn't wanted to glimpse into that tangled and conflicted psyche. 

Hannibal is a maze of thorns and traps, all fog and mist and shadows and yet Will is captivated to feel his way through it. He feels an answering darkness to his own, a safe harbor to navigate to -- that despite the narrow passage and sharp rocks, that if he can just maneuver and arrive, he _will_ be safe.

Will feels safe now.

Hannibal doesn't fight him off, doesn't protest. Hannibal reaches to grab his hip and presses back, willing and receptive and _his._

Will groans, completely taken by the intensity, by such need to burn up _with_ Hannibal. Hannibal's _yes_ is like the first rain after a drought. It quenches and rejuvenates and Will rocks into Hannibal's waiting wet hole. With this position, he might not be able to get much momentum, but it's closeness, it's Hannibal sheltered into him, Will holding onto him and it's perfection.

Hannibal amends Will's statement, that this is what they _both_ need. And then an honest please is given. Will feels destroyed by the acceptance and vulnerability he's been gifted with. When Hannibal turns his head over, Will meets his mouth and kisses it. It's somewhat sloppy given the angle, but it's still Hannibal's mouth and another taste so Will enjoys and gives. He wants to learn this mouth, to worship Hannibal's teeth with his tongue, to kiss until lips are swollen and sore.

Will's other arm wraps around Hannibal's torso, his hand splaying wide and possessive. Hannibal's body is hot and wet with slick and sweat. Will can feel come leaking out of him while his hips roll forward but nothing is a deterrent. It's all primal and urges and _them_ and Will is going to sear this memory upon his mind like a brand. 

* * *

Has the denial made the pleasure greater or is Hannibal truly a slave to his instincts despite his wishes? He doesn't know, and frankly, in that moment he can hardly bring himself to care. Will's chest is pressed against his back, and unlike in the catacombs, it's a flood of warm, bare skin against his own. Every point of contact feels like a rush of warmth, of extra sensation, and despite the shower, Will's scent is thick upon the air, a mix of arousal and musk and sweat and Hannibal's own come. He shudders with it, caught off guard once more by how different it feels to have Will _inside_ of him. 

Even now, a part of him doesn't want to like it, doesn't want to be such a slave to his instincts. He's lasted this long without the indulgence; he doesn't _need_ it. And yet in this case? He knows he does. And even if _he_ doesn't, _Will_ does. Hannibal can't deny his desire to give this to Will, if just for this once, and despite his protests, it does feel intensely good, all but robbing him of breath with how _right_ it feels. 

Will is a firm warmth behind him, his arms tight and possessive, their bodies a mess of sweat and Hannibal's slick. The desire to get onto his knees is there, but that one is easy to dismiss as he feels each desperate roll of Will's hips and feels the answering bliss that twists through him. His breathing roughens, a low rasp of need as Will touches and takes. And when he gives in and their lips meet in a kiss that is more need than skill, Hannibal cannot hope to muffle the sharp groan that he lets out.

He kisses back, more a touching of tongues and lips and teeth and breath than typical kissing but he doesn't care. He shakes with the need of it, his body burning up and desperation climbing. Will's touch is possessive, keeping him close, and Hannibal's nails are near-claws against Will's hip, scoring desperate lines into his skin. He breathes Will's name, a quiet mantra.

How had he managed all these months without this man by his side? The thought seems blasphemous now. Perhaps in time the instincts will calm and rational thought will once again spark, but Hannibal honestly doubts it. His desperation is instinctual, yes, but the need to have Will close? The comfort at his touch? The aching desire to see and touch and taste and cater in return? That is genuine, is _him_ , and as the thought truly registers, Hannibal shakes, for he'd almost lost this. He'd almost _killed_ it...

When he grabs at Will's hip again, it's firmer, filled with a different kind of desperation. Hannibal begins to press back, to circle his own hips as best as he can, and while his own moans are rough with pleasure and need, there is a new insistence in his actions as he growls low in the back of his throat. 

"Press in as deeply as you can," Hannibal manages to choke out, shaking. "I want you... want you to knot. Let me make you."

* * *

It seems so surreal to be here in Italy, sweating and fucking on ridiculously soft and expensive sheets. They're here together, countless problems and issues need to be addressed. Bedelia. Jack. What next? Where to? What now?

But in this moment, with Hannibal's Heat in full swing, _this_ makes sense. This is sanctuary, found together, experienced together. Each roll of Will's hips has him feeling a delicious tight and wet welcome. It's more than sensation around his cock, though. There's closeness and intimacy and the smell of Hannibal (petrichor and sandalwood) with the added layer of the near sickly sweet slick. Will's never been very taken with desert, never had much of a sweet tooth, but he remembers the taste of Hannibal's slick, the cloying honeyed quality to it, and Will thinks he would have feasted on Hannibal for hours. Maybe he can again later.

Fucking feels good, it's no surprise to him. Putting one's dick in anything hot and tight is sublime, but knowing that this is what Hannibal's body _needs? -_ what they _both_ need - is something else entirely. Will may have failed Abigail, he may have failed Hannibal, but he's not going to fail him in this. He holds Hannibal close, muscles tensing and aching in the best possible way.

Sure, the whole emergence of the Heat, being bombarded by instincts flaring is disconcerting at the very least, but it's not as if Hannibal had _planned_ this... 

But what if he had? Hannibal is a doctor. He should have known the symptoms. Even if a full fledged Heat is uncomfortable and disempowering to Hannibal, it would have been nigh impossible for Will to leave his mate in such a state.

Biological manipulation at its finest. The very concept feels like a pollutant in his mind. 

Hannibal's own hips move as best he can, encouraging and hungry and it's difficult to try and argue against such a blasphemous notion. 

Hannibal's words cut through, low and commanding: _'I want you... want you to knot. Let me make you.'_

Even with his doubts, Will feels the scale close to tipping. His nails dig into Hannibal's stomach as he thrusts hard and deep and punishing. He's going to let Hannibal make him. It's only a matter of a few frenzied thrusts, Will's head tucked against Hannibal's neck, that he feels his knot begin to swell. Will closes his eyes, shuddering and pushing on. Hannibal's body clenches around him and is desperate to force Will over the edge, to _make_ him--

And he does. His orgasm is wrenched out of him as he knots and plunges inside Hannibal one last time, filling Hannibal again and nearly snarling in cascading pleasure.

It's bliss and yet...

"Did you..." Will tries but has to stop. It's rather difficult to form coherent speech right now. "Did you plan this?"

* * *

Hannibal's world - so grand and so vast - has narrowed in on two singular points: himself and Will. Concerns for the future are quiet whispers in his mind. Dimmond's body and Bedelia and Jack are all muted, so unimportant given the way that Hannibal feels now. The rage that had shaped Dimmond's corpse into displayed bitterness has faded to an aching warmth centered in his chest. His listlessness has been focused, his sorrow soothed. All there is for him is the feeling of Will thrusting in deep and his own subsequent pleasure. 

He feels Will's hands grasping and Hannibal's own hands hold back as tightly as they can. Their nails slide against slick skin and Hannibal knows he will wear Will's marks for some time, but in this wild, twisting moment of need and desperation, he cannot bring himself to care. He's just focused on finally giving Will the pleasure that he had denied himself before. If this is the way they must do it, for now Hannibal will comply. He needs it. Loath as he is to admit it, at present it is a physical _need_. So he encourages Will to grind in deep, his own breathless gasps filling the bedroom as Will takes.

Hannibal does what he can, pressing back, clenching down whenever he can feel Will's hips pressed flush to his skin. He learns the way Will thrusts harder when the pleasure is greater, and Hannibal soon finds a rhythm that leaves them both shaking. He doesn't even feel his own orgasm rushing to meet him until it's suddenly there, and it catches him by surprise, wracking and deep in a way his previous one hadn't been. Hannibal chokes on the sound that wishes to escape and instinct makes him push back as Will suddenly presses in deep.

Whether Will's knot had already been there upon pressing in, or Hannibal's orgasm had drawn it out, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. He just feels the sudden pressure, the quick spike of pain, and then an aching fullness that sends waves of relief through him as he shakes. He feels the heat of Will's come, feels the way Will's body shudders with his answering pleasure, and he hears the snarl Will lets out, almost deafening so close.

Distantly Hannibal hears Will's question, but the words don't instantly register. Only when the pleasure has crested and begun to settle again - leaving him shivering with the aftershocks - does Hannibal manage to piece Will's question together. At first, admittedly somewhat Heat-drunk on the waves of satisfaction that he feels, Hannibal's brow just pinches. He looks back at Will dazedly, a furrow on his brow. 

"What?"

It's just oddly-phrased enough that it seems important to focus on the question, and only then does Hannibal begin to understand. At first the implication is shocking. He blinks, the furrow smoothing off of his brow to be replaced with disbelief. But that disbelief soon sours into something else. 

Hurt.

"No," Hannibal rasps, and while his tone is still breathless and rough with pleasure, it's immediately withdrawn, somewhat clipped. Cold. 

He shifts, as if making to move, but the swell of Will's knot has him caught. Grimacing at the spike of discomfort, and feeling a little more clear-headed after the knotting, Hannibal suddenly feels the awareness of his position and what Will had done. What Hannibal had _begged_ him to do. To hear a question like that - deserved as it is - while he's feeling so vulnerable leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

"No, Will. I didn't _plan_ this."

* * *

It's not Will's intention to ruin this moment, to hurl out an accusation and possibly invite contention between them. He knows that Hannibal is vulnerable right now too. He understands that the timing is rather pisspoor to voice such a question and yet he's asked it anyway.

Hannibal likely has come from this as well, but it's hard to tell. Physically Will feels shaken and wrought with pleasure. His muscles burn pleasantly and his cock is nestled and locked deep inside Hannibal's body. Emotionally, Will feels off balance, stones under his foot instead of cement. Hannibal's own sounds of pleasure seem muted, as if Will is trying to listen underwater. 

Will needs to know. So he's asked and Hannibal does not answer immediately. The seconds pound on, sealed tight together, their skin slick and almost merging, and Will can do nothing but wait for his words and the implication to cut through Hannibal's haze. 

Eventually Hannibal just glances over his shoulder, confused, but it doesn't take too long for it to hit Hannibal. Will can first hear and then feel Hannibal's displeasure with his question. There is hurt. Hannibal makes to shift -to withdraw - but he's unable to do so.

Hannibal's denial comes and Will tucks his face against Hannibal's shoulder, as if ashamed. 

(Maybe he is a little.)

"Christ, sorry," Will mutters, wishing relief felt better. His hand strokes along Hannibal's stomach. "You know, old habits, old suspicions." He kisses at Hannibal's shoulder and rolls his hips a little to really feel Hannibal (and to let Hannibal feel him in return and to maybe remind the both of them that there's no escaping). 

* * *

Hannibal can feel the whisper of Heat through his senses still, like the rustling of a predator in the tall grass. While it has decided to be patient, while it is sated for now, Hannibal knows it isn't gone for good. He can feel it, a tickle in the back of his mind even as the intensity of it begins to settle, but his focus is not on the pleasant warmth and satiation all through him. Nor is it on the honestly-exquisite pleasure of feeling Will pressed and knotted so deep. His focus is on what Will had asked him, and on the dozens of implications that lie under the surface.

The thing is, he can't claim overtly that it hadn't been _instinctively_ intentional. But as far as _planning_ is concerned, Hannibal had been as caught off guard by it as Will had. He knows he'd been taking the suppressants, and while Dimmond could have been seen as a _plan_ , Hannibal's actions had been borne of impulse. Perhaps a part of it had been Heat, but he hadn't been aware of it. That Will has asked - has brought the possibility to light - is both insulting and highly likely. 

Hannibal feels the press of Will's cheek to his shoulder, feels the way Will's hand moves down to his stomach - wet with sweat and his own come - but Hannibal doesn't relax. He wants to; his instincts are content, are pressing at him to just relax and focus on the moment, but Will's question - while understandable - has left something heavy between them. It isn't enough to completely sour the physical pleasure. The roll of Will's hips (a reminder, or an attempt to distract him, perhaps) _does_ make him shudder, does make his breath hitch, for the press of his knot is full and deep. It does feel pleasurable.

If only that were enough to drown out Will's question.

"This was as much as surprise to me as it was to you. Likely more so," Hannibal says tightly. Yet despite how much Will's suspicion stings, there is a very real part of him that wants to just bask in Will's touch. He does, but the mood has definitely soured despite the pleasure of each roll of Will's hips.

"I have experienced one Heat prior to this," he adds, turning to rest his head on the pillow, looking away from Will. "The signs were not apparent. I had other concerns on my mind."

* * *

As with most of their dealings, timing is an issue. While Will may know better, the concern has already taken root and if he wants to pull it out, Will must deal with the weed sooner than later. It's a bitter thought, a cruel insinuation but their mouths and hands are adept at dealing out cruelty. Life isn't kind. Georgia and Peter could attest to that. Beverly and Abigail. Hannibal hadn't been kind and Will... Will had been naive, hopeful... Fevers may have abated, swelling gone down, illness treated, but Will now knows that what ails him cannot be fixed by modern medicine.

Biology doesn't fully dictate that he's bound to Hannibal and here. It's possible to move on from mating bonds, after all. It's Will's heart that knows, even if Hannibal were to have - subconsciously or not - tried to manipulate him, that Will wouldn't be leaving. He's slipped his wrists into these cuffs willingly. Being seen and known and having the favor returned... Well, he doesn't want to let it go. He's not going to let Hannibal go.

It's a strange sensation to be wrapped up in Hannibal's heat, his dick still hard and his knot swollen while bringing up this contentious point. Hannibal doesn't feel relaxed against him. Will can sense the discomfort, how it started emotionally and has transferred into Hannibal's body. There's a pang of guilt at having caused this upset, but Will isn't about to retract his question. He can't shove this back in the box anyway and Hannibal wouldn't allow it on principle.

When Hannibal finally responds, his words aren't clipped but Hannibal's tone is strained. Will doesn't interrupt, he listens as Hannibal explains that he'd actually only had one Heat and that he'd been distracted. When Hannibal blatantly turns his head away to rest on the pillow - and look away from him - Will frowns, not liking the distance or implication one bit. He purposefully thrusts deeper into Hannibal, his fingernails scratching along Hannibal's stomach as if trying to recreate the scar that Hannibal had left with him.

"You're the only one on my mind," Will growls. "Don't pull away from me." He means emotionally as Hannibal is pretty much unable to escape physically. It's not an order, but there is a definite attitude. Will licks at the bite mark on Hannibal's neck, relishing in the salt tang of Hannibal's skin. 

"Given who you are, would it have beenout of the question? You've always been calculating, Hannibal."

* * *

Hannibal cannot do much to make his displeasure - his hurt - known, but turning away from Will is symbolic enough. The meaning must occur to Will suddenly, for before Hannibal has a chance to truly shut himself away from the moment, from the implication and the suspicion, Will thrusts in deeper. He can't get the proper momentum like this, perhaps, but he doesn't need to. His knot is swollen and thick, and the feeling of it grinding in deeper and pressing firmly against Hannibal's prostate is enough to make him gasp. Hannibal jerks with a clipped sound, almost strangled, and he feels a flare of Heat spike again, as if his body is scrambling to ready itself again. But given how recently his Heat had been sated, he's able to fight the fresh flare of it back, though not before arching into the feeling of Will's nails, sharp and grounding.

He aches, the physical sensations sharp. One glance is all he needs to see the welts forming over his abdomen (like Will's scar. Fitting) and it's settling in a way that little else is. Yet not even that - nor the sudden deep growl of Will's voice - can chase away the shadows of suspicion. Hannibal can feel each acrid drip like venom against his eyes - the proverbial Loki and Sigyn - and Will's suspicion burns. 

In a place where Hannibal could possibly distance himself or shield himself from Will's doubt, it might not burn so much. But like this, stripped bare, vulnerable, and _literally_ caught in a moment that he cannot escape from, the words feel caustic. Hannibal grimaces and closes his eyes. He cannot distance himself physically, but he can find his control elsewhere. 

"You're right to suspect," Hannibal bites out, his voice clipped. "Had I known that _this_ would have been enough to pull you back to me even a month ago, I would have done it, willingly. But do you think that I would have planned it like _this?_ " There's a thread of bitterness that edges his tone, but it softens slightly at the press of Will's tongue against the bite mark. Instinct tells him to relax, to enjoy, but suspicion is a caustic substance. 

"Brought to desperation in the dirt, surrounded by the dead, with police so close? Had I _planned_ it, I'd have ensured my own comfort. Taken time to... become acquainted with what would be _expected_ of me."

Hannibal shifts again, his grimace deepening. He's conflicted. The connection feels nothing short of blissful, but he feels exposed, vulnerable. Will had chosen to douse him with cold reality when he'd needed _Will_.

"Given your pleas, you _know_ how I feel about... submitting like this. Was this the best time to cast doubt? At the height of my vulnerability?"

* * *

Of course Hannibal isn't going to deny that it could have been a very real possibility. He's seen Hannibal pull on puppet strings and expertly maneuver game pieces around. Hannibal had fooled them all -- had fooled so many people for so long with his benign smiles and lavish dinner parties. The once surgeon, the helpful psychiatrist, gourmand, published, how could he be the Chesapeake Ripper!?... But it would have been rather underhanded to appeal to Will's Alpha nature, to try and seduce him with the fevered sweetness that accompanied Heats, for Hannibal to use his body as bait. To reduce the both of them.

Will isn't so far gone or pigheaded that he can't see reason in this. Hannibal is correct: if he were to have sunk this low he would have planned it better. He wouldn't have chosen to freely give up control in such a public, uncomfortable and dangerous place (although it had been reckless to leave a Valentine). Will has seen first hand how difficult it is for Hannibal to be like this, to be anything like an Omega.

It doesn't matter that Will can see reason _now,_ his words have done damage. How deep has he plunged the blade? Has he twisted it just right? Caught between frustration and pleasure, the fallout from this is difficult to discern. 

_'Given your pleas, you **know** how I feel about... submitting like this. Was this the best time to cast doubt? At the height of my vulnerability?'_

They may be true, but Hannibal's words cauterize. Will pulls away, he stops licking at Hannibal's neck. Indignation flares, along with it the supremely discomforting feeling of shame churning with unfairness. Will goes rigid. His nails stop scratching and his palm flattens out. He's tried to apologize. Said sorry, tried to smooth it over, but it feels futile. Hannibal feels like an unhappy petulant child that Will has no idea how to placate.

There may be instincts, there may be love, but they _are_ still themselves and therein lies the problem.

"Obviously not," Will snaps. He's angry that he can't leave either lest he hurt Hannibal. The upside of this is that the knotting should be on the shorter side. Will closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, at a loss. "I said I was sorry. I can't take it back. It's not like I'm experienced with this either, okay? I don't... I don't know how to shut myself off and be exactly what you need."

Inadequate. He feels inadequate and Will doesn't want to fuck this up when it's barely just begun, but it's proving difficult to navigate Hannibal.

* * *

So many assume that mated life is bliss, that any problems in the bedroom or in the home can be solved merely due to instincts. Yes, instincts do pull and claw to appease, to find comfort and compromise, but Hannibal has always viewed them as undermining. Even now his instincts whine at him to stop, to allow the rhythmic lap of Will's tongue and the scratch of his nails to soothe the way they should. Hurt begets a sort of stubbornness though, and Hannibal wishes he hadn't been given the dose of reality. Is it fair of him to react this way? Perhaps not. Just as it hadn't been fair of Will to ask what he had _when_ he had.

Just because they are mates does not mean they know how to navigate each other. Just because they _love_ each other does not mean that they aren't still two separate people, and as Hannibal lays there and feels Will go rigid behind him, he is quickly reminded that it has been eight months since he's seen this man. Before that, while they had shared intimacy of a different sort, Hannibal doesn't know how much of it had been real for Will. Up until this moment, have they ever been genuinely on the same page? They might be mates. Will might have chosen him. But do they _know_ each other?

Or are they both imagos of the other? A perfect image in their minds? And now reality has ripped a hole in it. If so, it's healthy. It may not be pleasant, but it is healthy.

Even so, Hannibal feels Will's touch all but cease. The gentle licking stops, the clawing of his nails stops, and Will draws away as much as he can. It stings, but Hannibal is not so petulant as to demand it continue when Will's bitterness has been sparked. Two needing comfort and unwilling to ask for it. What a pair they make.

Will's snapped tone makes Hannibal flinch slightly, his anger poking sharply at Hannibal's instincts but Hannibal fights it back. He will not be a complacent Omega, not even for Will. Defense mechanisms tell him to simply wait out Will's knot and then put distance between them, to go off and lick his wounds in silence. But Hannibal is still a psychiatrist. He _knows_ how damning that will be, regardless of how appealing a thought it is. So when Will's anger turns to something almost shamed and frustrated, he struggles to fight past his own defensiveness. It's something.

"Shutting yourself off is not what I need," Hannibal says tightly, but he takes a slow, measured breath and tries again. It's an effort at least. "You should have been more aware. Hearing your doubts then was... unpleasant." Understatement. "But if you _have_ them, I don't want you to cast them aside. You should have asked them at a different time, but if the uncertainty is present, I don't wish you to compromise yourself. It will... take time to re-learn one another. Or learn each other for the first time." Hannibal trails off for a moment. He still feels unpleasantly exposed but Will can sense that. If Hannibal can feel Will's frustration and anger, Will can sense his hurt. 

"If you _could_ take it back and do it differently, would you?"

* * *

How quickly and easily bliss can be eaten up and poisoned by a measly few words. One question, a horrible insinuation, a reckless urge to voice it _now_ and their pleasure has turned conflicted. There is no denying that this moment is soured between them.

Will regrets it, of course. Just like _that_ _night._ Will doesn't want any more regrets added to the list, but here he is anyway, pissed off and frustrated and regret burrowing into his skin. Of course Hannibal and he have had disagreements in the past, but they'd been dealt with in cunning ways, underhanded ways... When it _had_ been direct, it was a knife in his gut. Maybe his question is the metaphorical blade into Hannibal's skin, slicing along his vulnerability. 

He can easily smell Hannibal's scent, laced with the Heat. His own sweat and musk add into the mix as well. It's strange to be so immersed in the scent of sex and relief, but to be emotionally struggling against it. They both are struggling. They both want to retreat and lick their wounds and they both _can't._

Will curses this aspect of biology. He wills his knot to recede. Instead of that, he's forced in this impossible situation hearing Hannibal both chastise him and try and play therapist. If he weren't knot-deep inside Hannibal he may have laughed at the irony of it. But Will listens, he tries to not shut off anymore than he has, but he had honestly not been aware of the sheer discomfort that he'd feel causing Hannibal hurt. Christ, he'd sent Brown after him. He'd promised a reckoning, he'd dreamed of hurting Hannibal. The thoughts burn like bile.

_'If you **could** take it back and do it differently, would you?'_

"Seriously?" Will shoots out, incredulous. His nails dig back into Hannibal's softer stomach. He lifts his head to bury his face into Hannibal's neck. Hannibal consumes his senses and when he answers it's a bit muffled. "Of course I would. I don't want to fuck things up, especially seeing as they've only just begun." 

Will kisses an apology into the scar on Hannibal's neck. He rocks back into Hannibal, eyelids fluttering at the jolt of tight wet heat that he can feel. "I need to learn you. I want this. Us."

* * *

Locked together in what some see as the penultimate show of devotion, Hannibal can do nothing but try. Will's insinuation still stings, and he knows he will feel the cauterized grip of his words for some time. Yet he has never before been ruled by instinct, and Hannibal has a precedence for his bitter hurt and petulance. It had amounted to months suffering alone and a deep gouge slashed across Will's stomach. Hannibal has _very good reason_ to want to temper this wound before it becomes infected. So he asks Will of regret, gives him a prompt, and Hannibal knows how ridiculous a question it is, but regret _means_ something.

If anyone knows that, it would be him.

Will's answer is rightly-incredulous and Hannibal's lips thin. A part of him expects ridicule, for the desire to wait out Will's knot and then retreat is difficult to dismiss even now. Instead of the ridicule he expects, though, Hannibal is instead treated to the sudden press of Will's nails and the scratch of stubble in against his neck. Hannibal stills, hurt warring with instinct, and while the bitterness does remain, Hannibal does not give it the same power it had obtained before. Instead he closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of them both. He scents Will's power, his musk, the calming scent underneath it all. He scents how it's mixed with his own - the scent of Heat and need and hurt - and bit by bit, Hannibal begins to systematically dismiss what he doesn't want to focus on. 

Will can't know what the last few months have been like. It is where he and Will differ, for Will's instincts are still bound by his secondary gender, just as Hannibal's are. The bloody valentine had been one of the final straws. _Not Will_. Hannibal had been nearing the end of his rope before now. And now... now he has Will, _finally_. He will not allow a stray comment to completely douse this flame. So when Will's lips find his scar, when his hips roll slowly, Hannibal allows himself the freedom of his reaction. While tight - for his vulnerability cannot be so easily ignored - the breath he lets out is clouded with a deeper pleasure. But more than that, it's hitched with emotion. Not even he - in his hurt - can deny that Will's kiss had whispered of apology.

"All right then. Our desires are the same. Though it- it is naive to believe that we will not wound one another, even during a Heat... Despite what we want." Hannibal says softly, and this time he lets himself feel the pleasure from Will's gentle rocking. He lets it lick up his spine and send shivers over his skin. Hannibal swallows. Self-consciousness still exists but he relocates his focus on Will, on his scent, his touch, the bite of his nails. He'll allow himself the luxury of uncertainty later, when his reaction won't poison the both of them. 

"I... didn't plan this. I swear to you. It... I was unprepared, and the intensity - the lack of control - is unsettling." Hannibal doesn't explain it further. Will must understand how disquieted Hannibal feels by the loss of control.

Hannibal waits only a beat and then he slides his hand down. He sets it over the one that Will has on his abdomen and he presses down, encouraging the bite of Will's nails with a soft, tighter sound in the back of his throat. 

"You are the only one I would ever share this with. I killed the only other Alpha who tried."

* * *

Choosing Hannibal - choosing _them_ \- doesn't come with an all-encompassing liberating freedom for Will. There's relief, yes. Hannibal is his mate, after all, and many people - mated or not - crave companionship and connection, but Hannibal Lecter is more than a mere Omega. Hannibal is more than a killer, doctor, therapist, friend or enemy... The list is long, possibly as long as Hannibal's offenses toward him. This commitment that they're forging feels like an initiation into a cult. Hannibal is becoming his religion, Will's seen the light and now every subsequent image his mind perceives is different -- _changed_. How could he ever be the same? 

They're becoming something _together,_ an amalgamation of emotion and reason, of broken promises and a potential future.

Frankly, it's frightening. Holding out the key to one's mind and heart... It's daunting. Will had never believed that he would do it and especially not with the likes of someone like Hannibal fucking Lecter. Will hadn't even thought Hannibal had a heart -- that he could love and be hurt, that he could be so utterly _human._ It had been easier to call him a monster, to elevate him to a different plane.

The beginning of any undertaking is the most detrimental. This period is rife with urgency and hesitancy yet instincts have crashed into them and forced them forward into this complication. 

But he loves this man, and Will can feel Hannibal slowly coming back to him and it's like a balm on Will's own frustration. It's not perfect, it doesn't completely ameliorate the issue, but it's something. It's compromise. And Hannibal is right, men like them - with their sharp minds and messy pasts - will hurt each other. It's _managing_ the conflict that is imperative. As Hannibal speaks, Will's hips don't still. He grinds into Hannibal, now a little determined to _not_ have his knot abate so quickly. 

No more running.

Hannibal doesn't need to expand on his comments. Will knows all too well how distressing a lack of control can be. He's used to it being expected of him, because Alphas are prone to recklessness, to impulsivity. But more than that, Will's fluctuating mental state from his work and the encephalitis exacerbating everything hadn't helped. Will knows Hannibal may have an appreciation for whimsy, but Hannibal prefers his ironclad control. If something is left up to chance, it's because Hannibal is curious, not because the choice has been taken away from him.

The Heat isn't so kind, isn't so accommodating. It's grabbed Hannibal by the hair and pushed his nose into it. _See?_

When Hannibal's hand comes to rest over his, Will shudders. He feels the invitation - the encouragement - and Will doesn't shy away from giving Hannibal what he needs. His nails dig into Hannibal's stomach and he scratches. 

"I feel honored that you would share this with me," Will murmurs and it's the truth. "I want all of you, Hannibal." Will takes in a steadying breath. "Not just the sides of yourself that you're prepared to give."

* * *

Vulnerability will never be a pleasant state for Hannibal to be in, but nothing ever said that this would be easy. For men like them, vulnerability and forgiveness seem almost insurmountable. Vast mountainous ranges that require climbing with no safety precautions put in place. That Hannibal had managed to forgive Will his transgressions had been nothing shy of a miracle. That _Will_ has forgiven him _his_ , though? That is what is truly remarkable. And it is that that Hannibal focuses on despite his hurt, despite the sting of Will's earlier comment. For while the blow had been low and aimed well, does it really overshadow the fact that they have managed to forgive one another? Two lives destroyed and rebuilt from the rubble of ground zero, and Hannibal's vulnerability has allowed him to feel stung? In the grand scheme of things, the sting is so mild comparatively, and once he allows himself to see it that way, some of the tension begins to ease.

Hannibal had killed Abigail Hobbs. He had ripped her - their _daughter_ \- from not only Will, but from himself. That Will has managed to find forgiveness is nothing short of miraculous. Yes, the wounds will remain. Yes, the bitterness will claw at them. They are not idle creatures, waiting for the world to prompt them. They will never exist in complete harmony. And yet... perhaps that is for the best. What is broken is rebuilt stronger and stronger. And as the realization finally begins to settle into Hannibal, he allows some of the defensive hurt to abate. He allows himself to begin to relax. 

So when Will's hips roll, Hannibal is suddenly shoved back into the moment, into the spike of pleasure that has him trembling. He presses against the hand on his abdomen, and Will takes the initiative. Hannibal feels the sudden bite of nails, feels the hard scratch, and though he doesn't intend to, he can't bite back the tight moan that escapes him, both from the rocking of Will's hips and the welt left behind across his abdomen. Hannibal feels the gnawing of his Heat, feels it sluggishly rearing its head, but it is not quite as visceral this time. It doesn't steal over him, for it _is_ mostly-sated for now. Instead Hannibal is treated to a more legitimate pleasure, one that is just from them. 

_'I feel honored that you would share this with me. I want all of you, Hannibal. Not just the sides of yourself that you're prepared to give.'_

The words are like an explosion at the base of a mountain, shaking not only the regal peak but compromising the foundation. Hannibal goes still and then, finally, he shifts, looking back over his shoulder at Will with an expression that seems conflicted between humbled shock and awe. He feels the moment shift, _feels_ the gaping hole in the side of the mountain, exposed, and knows that it will come down, that it will reform anew. 

"You would rend my defenses and claw through whatever remains, wouldn't you?" Hannibal asks, but the question is halting, filled with a cautious awe. "I cannot guarantee you ease in that endeavor. But... you are a brilliant, stubborn creature. If anyone is worthy of _all_ of me, it would be you. I only hope you are prepared to endure the same from me."

Hannibal presses harder against Will's hand, hard enough that the nails on his abdomen could draw blood were they so inclined. And, with a visceral shudder, Hannibal finally presses back, clenching his muscles around the base of Will's knot. 

"I want... to feel you like this. Without the Heat blinding us both. Please, Will?"

* * *

Hannibal is an unrelenting force. Refined and yet ruthless. Composed but never placid. Calculating. A genius. An artist. A visionary. Socialite. Irreverent. Cultured. A Doctor. Killer. Lover. A chimera of a man. Despite it all, despite Hannibal's wishes, he's also an _Omega._

Hannibal has shown various sides to Will. A benign therapist that Will had claimed to be uninteresting. A therapist who steadily became his friend, a friend who betrayed him brilliantly. An antagonist, an adversary, the whole keep your friends close but your enemies closer thing. So many lines had blurred between them that Hannibal eventually couldn't fit one role. Will couldn't put him in a box, couldn't see him as only one thing and while a part of him would like to argue it's because of the mating bond, Will knows it's not the case.

He wouldn't have even entertained thoughts of it, of offering to mate with Hannibal. If Will had believed Hannibal to be a true psychopath, Will couldn't have let himself. Yes, Hannibal definitely has psychopathic traits. Hannibal is not a _good man,_ and he hasn't been especially good to Will but...

But. Hannibal had been the first to see him and not feel pity, to not simply want to fix him, to not simply use him and that's worth _everything._ It's worth running away from his life and running to Hannibal. It's worth any and all future discomforts.

Will knows Hannibal wants to be in control, he wants to not be chained or ruled by instincts, to be _judged._ Will agrees, he understands how disconcerting a Heat must be, how hiding an Omega status is much easier than dealing with the potential threat of ridiculous treatment by times. But he wants all of Hannibal, the swanky suits, the white apron, the killer, the lover, the Omega. The _man._

When he feels Hannibal look up and over at him, Will meets his eyes. He swallows. The moment is heavy with understanding, with feeling and emotion that's both aching but necessary (for if Will is wanting this - no, demanding this - Hannibal will expect the same). The question needs no answer. Of course Will would desperately seek to tear through Hannibal's defenses, to strip away any layers that would keep them even an fraction of a inch apart. And when Hannibal presses on his hand, Will digs his nails harder with the intention of drawing blood because Hannibal is _his._

And when Hannibal purposefully clenches around him, Will bites his lip, a hiss of pleasure following. He's not prepared for Hannibal's admission, for him to want this again and say _please._ It's his turn to feel claws at his self-control. Will surges forward, kissing Hannibal fiercely. 

In between kisses and nips, he gasps out, "Yeah, of course" and he wants to say so much more, but the gravity of this love grinds against him.

* * *

The words are out and Hannibal will not recant them. He would sooner rip another limb from limb than allow them to even consider doing what he has asked Will to do. He will allow Will to have him, though. It won't be now; his Heat is still burning under his skin and Hannibal's resentment over its existence has not faltered. Later, however, once the burning, aching need has finally been sated? Then he intends to allow Will what he needs. This, for now, is mostly instinct, is a product of hormones and stress and bonding. It doesn't make the intimacy any less visceral, nor does it falsify the emotion burning in their chests. But Hannibal can feel the blunting of his mind even now, and the memory of aching, burning need and desperation - while ultimately satisfying - is still encased in bitterness. Maybe with exposure he could grow to enjoy it, but Hannibal still prides himself on his mind too much.

But in these whispered seconds of intimacy, his mind is no longer quite so muted. Will's words, the implication, the obsessive curl of desire and _possession_ are enough to tear the breath from his lungs. It is so far beyond physical pleasure, and while the suspicion still aches like an old wound, Hannibal's focus is no longer on it. His focus coalesces along the sharp scrape of Will's nails. The gasp he lets out is rich and genuine, and Hannibal presses into the bite of Will's nails, feeling blood well and spill but a few drops, but it is enough. The scent of blood, the sting of the wound, and the way that Will agrees and presses in closer make the moment worthwhile. And it is in that visceral space between breaths, with Hannibal gazing at Will in open awe and Will looking at him with his self-control fractured that they come together once again.

The kiss is biting and bruising and fierce. It is all-encompassing, enough that nothing else matters. Will wishes to see him at his core, laid bare. No suits, no masks, no deception, just honesty, and Hannibal trembles with what that truly _means_ as Will grinds his hips, allowing instinct to take over. Hannibal bites sharply at Will's lips and flinches at the pleasure as it curls through his body, but there is no spoken decision as they move together. Will doesn't need to ask and Hannibal doesn't need to prompt. With Will's fingers digging bloody and stained against the claw-marks on Hannibal's abdomen, he grinds in deep, his knot pressing and coaxing and demanding. They move together, all sweat-slick skin and gasped breaths, and when Hannibal feels the edge of pleasure sink its claws into him once again, he goes willingly.

He shakes and gasps and Will's voice muffles against his shoulder as pleasure once more crashes over them, nails clawed, teeth bared, but lips soft. 

Time has no meaning in the minutes that follow. Everything in their world has narrowed to hitched, ragged breathing and soft touches. Hannibal slides his hand over Will's hip and weakly turns back to kiss him, and it is like that that he allows himself to finally relax. Whatever the morning brings - whatever the next few weeks, or months, or _years_ bring - they will face it together. Not alone. Even if it takes them blood and death to finally learn one another, in this blissful moment as the sky outside begins to darken, Hannibal believes they will achieve it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, please consider giving it a kudo/comment and/or reblogging it on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/171648462483) \-- thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where the desperate ones crawl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435108) by [merrythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts), [ReallyMissCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee)




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